


He's Not Heavy

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Kid!Lock, M/M, Unrequited Crush, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock meets John when they are both nine years old, and despite a rocky beginning they are soon friends.  Over the years they carry the weight of the other, both physically and metaphorically. In snapshots we see them grow up, grow closer, and grow apart. When a battle-scarred and badly depressed John Watson moves to London, is there anything that can save him? And along the way can he save Sherlock Holmes?





	1. Not A Cape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kabes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabes/gifts).



> This starts out when the boys are kids, and although there is some language and mentions of sex in later chapters, I don't think it exceeds Teen and Up. Please leave me a note if you disagree and I'll change the rating to Mature.   
> I intended this to be a fluffy and humorous one-shot but you see how that worked out.
> 
> <3<3<3 This fic is a gift for Kabes, whose idea this originally was, and whose support has been phenomenal throughout the length of another work.  
>  You're one fantastic pen pal, my dear. <3<3<3

         “I like your cape!”

          William Sherlock Scott Holmes, age nine, looked down the Vernet nose he had inherited from his French Grandmother at the small blonde boy who was dressed as a rather raggedy soldier, in clothes that were far too big for him. “It is not a cape. It is a greatcoat. Pirates don’t wear capes.”

          “Oh. What’s a greatcoat? Is that like a great-grandmother? Like a really old coat or something?”

          “Of course it’s not! You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

          Tears filled the eyes of the tiny soldier, “I’m not stupid! I get top marks at school!” He sniffled, “You’re mean.”

          “Everyone is mean.” Of that Sherlock was certain. Perhaps people tried to hide it—like the Vicar’s sister, who smiled and smiled but liked to pinch small boys when no one was looking—but they were all mean. Sherlock knew; he could see the things people tried to hide. Well, he was learning anyway. Mycroft was better…not that he’d ever tell him that…but of course, Mycroft was older, so he had more experience.

          “No they are not,” it was quite surprising how emphatic the child was. He put his hands on his hips, “My mum isn’t mean, and my sister isn’t mean—well, except when she wants to talk on the phone with her friends and she makes me sit outside—and my dog isn’t mean—”

          “You have a dog?” Sherlock perked up. He wanted a dog, but Father had allergies, and Mummy’s cat Archimedes couldn’t be disturbed by a dog, and their housekeeper wouldn’t countenance the mess, and Mycroft complained about how noisy dogs were. So no dog for Sherlock.

          “I do!” The other boy’s eyes lit up, tears forgotten. “His name is Duke and he’s a bulldog and—”

          “Duke?” Sherlock sneered, “What sort of stupid name is that for a dog?”

          “I’m not going to tell you anything more about my dog if you’re going to continue being mean. Mum said I should ignore bullies, so I’m going to ignore you.”

          A bully? Him? But…but he was the one who was continuously picked on at school. They called him Weirdo and Freak, and Beanpole and Miss Sherly (because of his curls, the idiots, as if only girls had curly hair) and tripped him in the halls, and threw spitballs in his hair during class, and broke his pencils, and stole his rucksack, and knocked his lunch tray out of his hands, and ripped his books, and destroyed his science experiments.

          “I’m sorry.” It was the first time Sherlock had ever said it without being prompted by Mummy or Mycroft. He said it stiffly, but that didn’t seem to bother the other boy, who turned back around.

          The blonde head tilted as he considered him, and Sherlock swallowed nervously; and then the other boy smiled, “That’s alright. I’m John.” He stuck out his hand and Sherlock stuck out his, “I’m Sherlock,” and they shook and then stood looking at one another.

          “Why did you name your dog Duke?” Sherlock finally asked.

          “For the Duke of Marlborough! He was the greatest military leader England’s ever had!”

          “There are those that would argue for the Duke of Wellington,” Sherlock said. But he said it tentatively, afraid of appearing to argue with his new…acquaintance.

          “He’s great too,” John agreed, “But Marlborough had more style.”

          Oh, well, that he could understand. The Holmeses appreciated style.

          “And his name was John Churchill and I like that we have the same first name.” John grimaced, “But Marlborough is too long and I didn’t want to name him John, cuz that would be stupid. I’ve had him for two weeks and I just decided on a name today.”

          “You could name him Churchill,” Sherlock offered diffidently, “He was also a fine tactician, although Grandpapa found him to be too radical.”

          “Sounds poncy,” John said.

          Sherlock wasn’t certain what that meant, but he wasn’t going to admit it. Whatever it was, it clearly found no favor with the other boy. “What about Winston?”

          “That doesn’t have anything to do with the Duke of Marlborough!” John protested, but he wasn’t angry. At least, Sherlock didn’t think so. He was smiling at him, so he couldn’t be angry, could he? Although sometimes the big boys at school smiled when they did mean things. Like the time they stomped on the mouse he had trained to run a maze for his science fair. It had made a squishy, cracking noise and he’d nearly not made it to the toilets in time to throw up. But John’s smile wasn’t like that.

          “No, but this way it’s like a secret,” Sherlock said. He loved secrets and codes. “It’s like an Enigma code! No one will know what it means but us!” Too late he realized that John might not care to have a secret in common with him.

          “A code…I like the idea of it being secret…” John smiled at him, and his blue eyes did a crinkly thing that made Sherlock’s insides feel warm. “That’s a good idea, Sherlock! You’re so smart!”

          He knew that of course. But it was nice to have someone say it; and with such a tone of admiration. Normally teachers sighed when they said it, and his fellow students got mad, as if he had any control over being a genius, “T-thank you.”

          “What’s an Enigma code?” John asked, sitting down with his back against a tree and rummaging in his sack. He pulled out sweets and chose one, holding out his hand to offer them to Sherlock. Tentatively he sat down next to him and accepted a chocolate. Unwrapping it carefully, he told his new acquaintance about the German Enigma codes, and the code breakers at Bletchly during the War.

          “Wow,” John breathed in admiration, eyes bright, “How do you know all that?”

          “My grandmother—the English one, not the French one—was a Bletchley girl.” Sherlock felt his chest puff with pride.

          “That’s brilliant! My gran worked in a munitions factory during the War, one of her fingers is missing the tip.”

          “Does it affect her dexterity?”

          “I dunno what that means,” John admitted.

          “Is she able to use her hand for all of its functions with no diminishment of ability?”

          “Oh, yeah. She knits my jumpers and cans fruit from our garden and plays the organ at church and everything.”

          “Interesting,” Sherlock said, “I’d like to see her play.”

          “Come to church on Sunday and I’ll sneak you back to watch. She lets me sit with her sometimes, and she gives me peppermints.”

          “I’ve never seen you at church services,” Sherlock realized.

          “Yeah, I’ve never seen you either,” John admitted. “And we’re at St. Anne’s for mass twice a day on Sundays and once on Wednesdays.”

          “Oh,” Sherlock said, “That explains it. We go to St. Albans. We’re C of E.”

          “We’re Catholic.” John chewed his caramel, “Some of the boys in town like to follow me around and call me a dirty Mick who diddles his sister. Which is dumb, because I’m not Irish, I’m English. My dad’s family came from Scotland like a hundred years ago or something.” He made a face, “And who’d want to diddle anyone, much less their sister?”

          “I generally find people to be idiots,” Sherlock offered, “And I don’t care if you’re not Anglican. I’m an atheist. But I have to go to church because Mummy says tradition is important, and Father says it will cleanse my soul, and Mycroft says it will keep them quiet if I just go and then retreat into my Mind Palace.”

          So then of course John had to ask what that was. They spent a very enjoyable half hour discussing the method of loci, and John extracted a promise to be taught how to create his own mind palace—which he was going to call his mind fort—in return for introducing Sherlock to his nine and a half fingered gran.

          “Look!” John pointed across the garden, “The older boys and girls are getting to take bites out of apples hanging from the trees!”

          “So?” It looked unhygienic to Sherlock.

          “So, they’re apples! I love apples! But also, if you manage to eat more than half of the same apple without using your hands, you get a prize!”

          No doubt a bit of cheap plastic. No need to mention that to John, however, as his new friendly acquaintance looked excited at the thought.

          “Is there an age limit?”

          “Well, it’s just for the kids, but you have to be tall enough to reach the apples, and I’m just too short,” John kicked at a tree root, “Mum keeps saying I’ll have a growth spurt but that doesn’t do me any good right now!”

          “Is there any rule precluding two people from participating in tandem?”

          “Not as long as you don’t hold the apple still, I don’t think so.” John’s eyes lit up, “Are you going to try? Are you tall enough?”

          “I don’t think I am quite tall enough, but I was thinking that perhaps you could climb on my back pick-a-back and thus be of proper height.”

          “Brilliant! C’mon, let’s go see if we can do it!” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and dragged him off to find the parent in charge of the games. He had a bit of a funny, off-kilter run, but he covered ground relentlessly. Less than two minutes later he was perched on Sherlock’s back, his short legs wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s skinny waist, his hands most sportingly clutching the greatcoat, as no hands were allowed. “We’ve got this, Sherlock! Let’s beat ‘em!”

          Staggering a bit, Sherlock wavered his way over to the nearest untouched apple and manouevered into position. “How’s this, John?”

          “Back up just a little, my neck is at a funny angle—there! Perfect! Okay, here we go, wish me luck…”

          Raising his chin and glaring at the teenagers sniggering at the duo, Sherlock planted his pirate-boot clad feet shoulder width apart for optimum stability and blew his fringe out of his eyes. He hoped John would be quick; his arms were starting to shake from trying to hold him up. “Sure you got the little feller?” One of the adolescent boys smirked. “He looks heavy.”

          “He’s not heavy,” Sherlock gasped grimly.

          “Done!” John spoke thickly through a mouthful of apple, and the parent nearby failed to hear him.

          “We’re finished,” Sherlock called crisply.

          “What? Already? You have to eat at least half…” her eyes widened, “You ate the whole thing down to the core!”

          “I like to eat,” John mumbled, trying to chew the last prodigious bite; which from the sound of it was half the apple.

          “They cheated!” Objected one of the spotty boys lingering nearby, ogling the girls in their silly costumes.

          “WE DID NOT!” John bellowed, struggling to get down.

          “Of course we didn’t cheat,” Sherlock said coolly, staring the older boy down, “We applied ourselves, unlike you lot. If you would stop attempting to flirt with these substandard offerings of the female sex you would have been able to attempt to compete with my friend’s startling abilities.”

          “Yeah, what he said!”

          “Alright boys, alright,” the mother said hastily, “you did very well. Now off you go.”

          “But we won!” John looked in danger of crying.

          “I do not see any other apples that even approach the degree of diminishment to which our fruit clearly displays. By the agreed upon rules, we therefore should receive the prize.” Sherlock stared her down until she began to fidget. Throwing up her hands she reached in a box and pulled out a package containing walkie-talkies.

          “Here, take these and piss off before I have a riot on my hands!”

          Grinning in triumph John snatched the package from her and ran off, Sherlock easily following with his longer legs. Returning to their tree the two boys sat down and struggled to open the packaging. “Hold on,” John said after a minute, “I’ve got my dad’s old clasp knife—there!” He handed Sherlock one of the walkie-talkies and took the other, fiddling with the settings. “These are pretty neat!”

          “They are certainly far superior to the usual trash one sees at such events,” Sherlock conceded. “Although to be fair, we have not tested their range yet.”

          “Let’s do that now.”

          “We should start out close to one another and then work our way slowly to the bounds of the signal,” Sherlock suggested.

          “Great idea.”

          “Thank you. I’m going to be a scientist when I’m grown, and I like a methodical approach.”

          “I’m going to be a doctor,” John said, “Or a soldier, like my dad was…but if I’m a doctor maybe we can go to the same university and study science stuff together!”

          Sherlock’s face felt warm, “Oh. Yes, that would—that would be most pleasant.”

          They immersed themselves into testing out the new apparatus until John raised his head at the sound of his sister shouting for him as she rounded the end of the estate, murder in her eyes at having to track him down. “Sorry, Blackbeard, I’ve got to scarper, my stupid sister says it’s time to go home. Where are you now? Oh, over.”

          “Roger. Beyond the greengrocer’s, nearly to the bridge. Where are you, Yellowbeard? Over.”

          “Roger. I’m at the corner of the high street and King’s Road. Over.”

          “Roger. That puts us at approximately three kilometers. I think they will cover the distance between our houses. We may have to change the frequency or go up on the roof of our houses to get the best range. Over.”

          “Let’s see if we can reach each other at bedtime, okay? Oh, roger. Um, I share a room with my sister, so I’ll have to sneak out. Over.”

          “Roger. Say nine o’clock? I mean, at twenty-one hundred hours? Over.”

          “Yeah! Gotta go, Harry’s really mad. Happy Halloween, Blackbeard! Over and out!”

          “Happy Halloween, Yellowbeard. Over and out.”

 

*****

 

          “Are you there, Blackbeard? This is Yellowbeard. Over.” John took his thumb off the button and sighed, waiting. It had been almost ten minutes and he was starting to think maybe the distance was too far, or that Sherlock had decided he didn’t want to talk. He shivered, wishing he had put on his coat. It was cold on the back stoop and kind of dark and scary. He wasn’t a baby, he knew monsters weren’t real. But it was harder to believe that when you were all alone in the dark and rustling noises kept coming from the bottom of the garden. Much longer and he’d have to go in or Harry would notice he had been gone too long.

          “Come in Blackbeard.”

          “This is Blackbeard. Over.”

          “Sherlock!” John smiled joyfully, straightening on the step. “I thought you weren’t coming!”

          “Roger. Sorry, my odious brother was lecturing me about steal—um, borrowing clothes from the attic without asking. Over.”

          “Roger, Blackbeard. Harry was grouchy the whole way home. I’ve got to go in soon or she’ll blab to mum about me being gone for so long. Over.”

          “Elder siblings are intolerable! I will be happy when Mycroft returns to school on Sunday.”

          “I wish Harry went away to school. I have to see her every day.”

          “Unfortunately Fatcroft is home more often than I would like. However, he will be going to Oxford soon and should be inflicting himself upon me less. He was bleating about my Latin studies and I’m going to sneak out of the house before he rolls his enormous carcass out of bed in the morning. Do you want to meet me and go an expedition to look for soil samples? Over.”

          “Roger! That sounds great! Mum has to work and if I’m home Harry will kick me out of the house so she can gab with her friends, and Gran is going to be up at the church most of the day. Can I bring Winston?”

          “Of course, he’ll be invaluable.”

          “Great! Meet you at the bridge at seven?”

          “Roger. See you then, John. Over and out.”

          “Over and out, Sherlock!”

 

 

         


	2. Not A Crutch

         “Damn, my ankle hurts!”

          “Something more than your ankle is going to be in pain if your mother hears you cursing. Do stop wiggling, John. You’re getting heavy. You need to stop eating so many chips or you’ll be as rotund as Bloatcroft and in danger of pulling passersby into your orbit.”

          John, balanced precariously on his best mate’s back, risked tweaking his ear, “Twat.”

          “You’re risking retribution, John Watson!”

          “You wouldn’t drop me,” John said confidently.

          “Perhaps not. But I will tell your mother you called me,” Sherlock’s voice dropped, “that.”

          “You can’t even say it to me,” John giggled in his ear. Sherlock devoutly wished that he wouldn’t do that. It made his stomach flip in the strangest manner. “You’re never going to be able to repeat it to my mum.” He rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, “And I’m not fat. It’s all muscle. Besides, you eat more chips than I do!”

          “That may be,” Sherlock replied primly, grateful to see the red-painted front door of the Watson home ahead, “But I don’t do foolish things like try to walk the roofline of the old Fletcher barn and fall and break my ankle.” He snorted breathlessly, “All to impress a girl!”

          “But a pretty girl,” John said dreamily, breath fanning Sherlock’s neck most distractingly. “And I told you, it’s not broken, just a sprain.”

          “I wager you a matinee at the cinema that you’re wrong.”

          “Done!” John giggled again, “Can you manage the steps or shall I hop up?”

          “Getting you up the stairs might be tricky,” Sherlock suggested, lowering John to the ground. He didn’t miss the flash of pain on the smaller boy’s face, and hurried to slide his arm around his waist, snorting a laugh when John clung to his neck like a monkey, not bothering to support himself at all on his good leg. “You don’t have to lean on me as if both your legs are broken, John. I’m not a crutch.”

          John put his foot to the ground and kept one arm over Sherlock’s shoulders, grumbling that if he only had one good leg then of course he needed a crutch, and together they moved slowly into the Watson home. “Mum!” John shouted, spurring Winston into barking excitedly, “Are you home? I hurt my ankle and need you to bind it for me!” His face was pale and he was sweating. Sherlock looked down at the foot John was holding off the ground and knew it was broken. It was far too swollen; hopefully John’s shoe wouldn’t need to be cut off. This was a new pair, and money in the Watson household was tight at the best of times. He should have wagered something smaller, as he was convinced John had broken his ankle.

          Mrs. Watson came hurrying out of the kitchen, shooing her son’s enthusiastic dog out of her path, face already falling into lines of stress. John was an extremely active, and at times reckless, fourteen year old and this was not the first time that year that he had hurt himself. “Oh Lord, what now? John Watson you devil, can’t you remain undamaged for a week?” She put her arm around his other side, “Let’s get you to the sofa, love. Please tell me you didn’t hop all the way home.”

          “Naw, Sherlock carried me most of the way.”

          “Sherlock, I’m sure you’re exhausted, he’s no lightweight.”

          “He’s not heavy,” Sherlock demurred, grateful to lower John to the sofa. He was looking rather peaky and Sherlock was confident that his friend’s mother would insist he visit the surgery to have his ankle checked out, and he was proved right. Three hours later John was lying on his bed in the room that was soon to be his alone, since his sister Harry was planning on moving in with friends. His foot, enswathed in a fresh new cast was propped on pillows and he was watching as Sherlock put the finishing touches on the tibia and fibula he had drawn on the cast. He’d inked in the areas around the “bones” and it was quite striking. “No one else ever had such a unique cast!” John bragged, holding his foot aloft and admiring it, “Thanks, mate.”

          “It turned out quite well,” Sherlock admitted, crawling up the bed to lie next to John. They admired the cast, and then turned their attention to the pile of library books that Sherlock had chosen.

          “I think this is my unlucky leg,” John said a while later, resting his book on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling.

          “Oh?” Sherlock asked, turning his head on the pillow to look at John. He studied the whorls of dark blonde hair that grew a little too long over John’s ear. There was a freckle he’d never noticed before behind John’s ear…it was a lone, brave little freckle, hiding shyly in the shadow of John’s suddenly defined jawline. Sherlock rather thought that solitary freckle belonged in John’s room in his Mind Palace. John turned his head and caught him staring. Quickly he looked up at the ceiling, heart hammering.

          “Yeah…think about it. There’s my dodgy hip that I had to have surgery on when I was little, it’s the leg that got bitten when I saved you from that stray dog…now I broke my ankle.” He sighed and glared at his foot, “I can’t play football for weeks.” He rolled his head to look at Sherlock, who stared hard at the ceiling. “You’ll have to wait to collect.”

          “I know where to find you,” Sherlock smiled slightly, breaking out in a grin when John giggled. He l—he liked John’s laugh a good deal; it had the power to make insults seem weak, and indignities mild when he laughed like that. If their enemies were lucky they got John Watson’s merry laugh and a dismissive flipping of his fingers. If they were unlucky they got the hot-as-a-flame temper of his Scottish forefathers and, usually, a swift fist to the face. He wanted to tell John that his “dodgy” hip as he called it, had given him a swagger when he walked that pulled eyes to him. But that would sound funny; even if he was just trying to make his friend feel better about the slight alteration the childhood surgery had given his gait.

          “And I won’t be able to go with you to the Downs,” John suddenly recalled, “Bloody hell I was looking forward to that! You’ll have a brilliant time while I’m stuck here like an invalid.”

          “Nonsense, John,” Sherlock said briskly, “It shall be postponed until you’re able to accompany me.”

          “Really?” John surged up onto his elbow and grinned down at Sherlock, “That’s great!” He frowned slightly, “Sure you don’t mind waiting six weeks for me to be able to hobble about?”

          “We can even wait an extra two weeks, so you don’t have to hobble,” Sherlock promised grandly.

          “Perfect!” John did some swift calculations, “The fourteenth of June then, it’s a date.” He flopped back down, eyes sparkling, “We can build a fire and stay up late…you can show me all the constellations and stuff.”

          A swift vision of putting his arm around John and guiding his chin up so he was looking in the proper direction flitted through Sherlock’s mind. He pressed a hand to the flutter in his chest. Could a fourteen year old have a heart attack? Blocked arteries maybe? Perhaps John was correct and he’d been eating too many chips.

          Downstairs the telephone rang and a minute later Mrs. Watson was shouting up the stairs, “Sherlock! Dear, your mother called, she said to hurry home now. You have guests coming for dinner.”

          “Blast,” Sherlock muttered, swinging his legs off of the bed and sitting up. He straightened his shirt and reached for his school blazer, “I put it out of my mind that the Stableforths were coming to dine. They have the most annoying offspring ever conceived, and since Mycroft is no longer at home, I shall be forced to entertain them.”

          “Are they little ‘uns?” John asked, struggling to sit up and slide back to lean against the headboard. “Drag out your old costumes and let ‘em play.”

          “Sadly, no. Philip is a few years older than us, and their daughter Susan is, I believe, but a year younger than I.”

          “Is she good looking?”

          “John Watson, is that all you think about?”

          “I think about football too,” John admitted frankly. “But mostly girls. Don’t you?” He answered his own question, “Probably not, smart as you are. You’re thinking about physics or something.”

          Not precisely. “I have room for many interests,” Sherlock said grandly. He sighed, coming down to earth, “Unfortunately none of which I have in common with Philip and Susan.”

          “Talk to him about fencing and just smile at her from under your fringe. It’s sexy when you do that.”

          It was? “It is?” _Why_ did his voice choose that moment to go all thin and squeaky?

          “Yeah…haven’t you ever noticed the girl at the chip shop staring at you?”

          “I assumed she was astounded to see someone who was familiar with soap and water frequenting her father’s establishment.”

          “Oh ha, ha,” John snorted, throwing a pillow at him, “Snob.”

          “Plebian,” Sherlock caught the pillow and threw it back, trying to delay having to leave John. He was struck by an idea, “I say, still got your old walkie-talkie?”

          “Yeah,” John’s eyes lit up, “Brilliant! A weekend stuck in bed won’t be so bad if I can chat with you.”

          “The Stableforths should be gone by ten or so,” Sherlock mused, “Meet me on our old frequency at twenty-three hundred hours.”

          “Will do,” John enthused, smiling broadly, “Have fun with the Stableforths.”

          Hardly likely, but at least it shouldn’t be too painful.

 

******

 

          “And of course,” Sherlock could hear his mother saying as he led the Stableforth offspring out of the drawing room, “Dear Sherlock has friends here in the village as well. He and John Watson are as thick as thieves. They’re planning a camping trip to the Downs this summer.”

          “Looking forward to a little intimate time alone with your boyfriend?” Philip sneered softly.

          Sherlock felt his expression falter, and fought to control his face. “John is a boy, and my friend, you managed to get that much correct. Well done, Philip.”

          “Who’s got a boyfriend?” Susan asked loudly.

          “Sherly here has a boyfriend, some grubby village boy.”

          “Do you really?” She asked in amazement, “How frightfully progressive of you.”

          “John is not my boyfriend,” Sherlock said stiffly, hands fisting at his sides.

          “What’s wrong, not even the morons in this hick town willing to kiss you, Sherly?” Philip Stableforth, Sherlock thought, had a vicious, beautiful face. He might have been very handsome if he hadn’t been so appallingly mean.

          _Show no weakness_ ; he could hear Mycroft’s voice in his head. “I know you’re trying to imply—”

          Philip laughed loudly, “Imply nothing. I’m stating it. You’re a poof, Holmes. I’ve known it for years. It’s obvious.”

          It was not. It was _not_. Oh God, please let it not be obvious. “It must be so funny inside your tiny mind,” Sherlock said coolly, panicking on the inside. He hadn’t even admitted it to himself yet. He kept hoping that for once he was wrong. “Small wonder your parents were bragging about your skill at tennis. Clearly your scholastic achievements lack any believable bragging rights.” He summoned Mycroft, unleashing a sneer worthy of his elder brother, “Best work on your serve so they have something to get them through your tenure at university.”

          It wasn’t entirely surprising when Philip punched him.

 

 

         


	3. Not A Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where we get more mature in our subject matter. And here be angst.

          “Oh shit,” John sighed, hugging Sherlock tightly, “I missed you, mate.” He thumped Sherlock’s back, the heterosexual males accepted way of removing any whiff of queerness to a two-armed hug. He rather negated that effect however, by burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, “I really, really missed you.”

          “I missed you as well,” Sherlock said breathlessly. In the last six years he had never quite managed to negate his inconvenient and highly inappropriate feelings for his best friend. Sherlock was sure that if he applied his intellect to the problem, eventually he would be able to triumph over the vagaries of his heart. His hands shook as he splayed them on John’s muscular back and took a surreptitious sniff of his hair. Oh God, he had missed his smell, his smile, his brash presence.

          John pulled back and smiled at him, which caused a very familiar swoop and soar in Sherlock’s treacherous insides, “Look how fucking tall you’ve gotten! Jesus, I thought you were done growing!”

          “I’m a perfectly acceptable height,” Sherlock sniffed, hiding his smile. “You’ve failed to live up to your potential, John.”

          “Piss off,” John shoved him lightly in the arm, grinning. His blonde hair was bleached lighter by the sun, cropped too short, showing the shape of his skull. Sherlock hated it. “So, I’ve visited with Mum and Gran and half the neighborhood, and been paraded around like a good little soldier.” He clapped his hands together, grinned fiendishly, “Let’s get pissed!”

          “This is dreadful,” Sherlock said fifteen minutes later, peering gravely into his pint, “Why do you drink, John?”

          “You’re mad, it’s great,” John drained his pint and held up two fingers to the dour publican. “Local lad makes good in Her Majesty’s Army, you’d think it would draw a smile out of that sour old—thanks Mr. Harris!—tit. Ah, God, that’s glorious.”

          Sherlock manfully swallowed the remainder of his pint and picked up the second one. He’d far rather be lounging on the bed in John’s old room, giving one another a hard time, or tramping the Downs in the fresh air than sitting in the dim confines of the Red Lion and drinking bitter ale and having their conversation interrupted every few minutes by villagers stopping by to welcome John Watson home.

          “No, not home for good,” John told yet another elderly pensioner, “I’ve got two more years on my first tour. They’re paying for my medical training, so—”

          “…yeah, it’s fascinating, but a lot of hard work…”

          “Just home for a visit. Come to kiss my mum and drag this one away from his books for a bit,” John slung a friendly arm around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him noisily on the cheek. Only John Watson could get away with that.

          “John,” Sherlock said warningly. He felt his cheeks heating up.

          “Hark at his blushes,” John giggled, kissing him again. Sherlock closed his eyes and committed the feel of John’s lips on his skin to John’s suite in his Mind Palace.

          “Get off,” Sherlock growled irritably, swiping at his cheek.

          “Let me buy you a pint,” yet another elderly man offered, and Sherlock sighed as he staggered to the loo. If he was going to be forced to consume yet more abominable alcohol, he would need to make room.

          “Good God, I’m sloshing,” John groaned, falling into the Gent’s after him, barely catching himself from falling to the floor. He unleashed another of his enchanting giggles, “Ooooh, I’m starting to feel those!”

          He stood at the urinal next to Sherlock, whose bladder immediately seized up. Normally he did not stand at urinals, being gripped with shyness at the best of times, and now being somewhat gun-shy after the incident in London. Luckily another train station restaurant patron had come in and the punks harassing him had bolted, but it left him shaken.

          John felt no such compunction, leaning one arm on the wall and sighing lustily as he urinated, “Fucking hell that’s a relief! Never thought I’d say this, but I think I’ve about had enough. You wanna-wanna go over to the chippy and get some cod and chips and take ‘em to the bridge?”

          “I think we could do with something to soak up the excess,” Sherlock agreed gravely, twitching as he waited for John to zip up and leave, though he was thankful his friend stopped to wash his hands. “I’ll see you out there,” he said vaguely, and the pee nearly burst from him the moment the door swung shut behind John.

          Back in the pub he wove his way to their pride of place and whimpered when he saw the platoon of pints that awaited them. John smiled a hazy, lopsided smile, “Looks like I have a few admirers. Let’s neck these and then escape.”

          “Necking” the pints had not improved matters, Sherlock thought, sinking onto the stone bridge barrier and shoving a handful of greasy, salty, delicious chips in his mouth. He’d never had chips before meeting John, and now the taste of them was inextricably linked in his mind with memories of his best friend. “I miss you,” he said without thinking.

          “I miss you too,” John said, sounding quieter and more serious than he had since he got home. He leaned his shoulder against Sherlock’s arm and stared at the grease-spotted paper in his hands, “I’ve got fellows I’m friendly with…but no one like you.”

          Me either, Sherlock didn’t have to say.

          “You?”

          “No.” He nibbled on a piece of fish, “You know I don’t have friends, John.”

          “You’ve got me,” John said simply, leaning against him and burping quietly into his fist. For some reason they found this hysterical, and they sat in the darkening gloom and giggled madly. Some of Sherlock’s chips slid off his paper and he stopped laughing and stared at them sadly.

          “My chips.”

          “Here, have some of mine,” John offered, and shoved several in Sherlock’s mouth.

          “That was delicious,” John sighed, licking his fingers.

          “Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, doing the same. “I haven’t had any since you left.”

          “Really? No late night study sessions ending in a mad run for the chip shop before it closes?”

          More like achingly late nights alone in his small room, drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes while he sat in his window and wished he could be done with it all already. Somehow university wasn’t as challenging as he had hoped. He was so bored all the time. He needed something to leaven the dull tenor of his days.

          “No, no chips for me.”

          “No wonder you’re still so lean,” John said. “You look like a Beat poet in your torn jumper and those black jeans. I expect you to pull out a beret and dark glasses, and start smoking Gauloises and talking about Kerouac.”

          Sherlock snorted, and crumpled the paper in his hands, “Hardly, John. Poetry is not my style.”

          “Pull a lot of action that way,” John suggested, leering. He tossed his paper in the bin and they set off down the road toward the Watson house, “Dark, broody poet type…yeah, you could pull like mad.”

          Sherlock didn’t bother responding, and a moment later he staggered and John caught him, “Alright?”

          “Sorry, my head went a bit light,” Sherlock mumbled, going to pull away and stumbling in the other direction.

          “C’mere,” John said, and slipped under his arm, shoring him up, “Too many beers in that lean frame of yours.” Sherlock protested but let him support him the rest of the way down the road, and they let themselves quietly into the house and tiptoed noisily upstairs. “We couldn’t have managed that if old Winston was still alive,” John sighed, flopping down on the bed and toeing off his trainers. “I miss him.”

          “As do I,” Sherlock agreed, clutching the bed post and fumbling to remove his shoes. Dizzy, he fell down onto the bed and sprawled next to John. “Ugh, I hate drinking.”

          “You didn’t have to keep up,” John rubbed his belly lazily, “Know it’s not your thing.”

          “We were celebrating the return of the man of the hour,” Sherlock mocked gently. He closed his eyes but found it made the room spin more.

          “Not a man yet,” John murmured, “Mum said I look like a soldier but still act like a kid and she’d be arsed if she’d let me go about cock of the walk. She threatened to follow us to the pub and show off my baby snaps. Got,” he yawned and rubbed his eye with his fist like a boy, “one of me naked in the bath, for God’s sake.”

          Sherlock snickered, jiggling the bed. “Good thing she didn’t show up. You wouldn’t have looked quite the conquering hero with you mother shoving pictures of your baby bum in everyone’s face.”

          John joined in laughing, and the bed squeaked as they rolled around. Calming, they lay quietly for a time.

          “I should go,” Sherlock finally mumbled, unable to open his eyes.

          “Shuddup,” John said, fumbling to find his mouth in the dark, accidentally smacking Sherlock in the eye, for which he chuckled out an apology before he tried to stifle him with his faintly fishy smelling hand. “Just go to sleep.”

          “Uhn,” Sherlock agreed, wriggling about.

          “Shit, this bed used to be bigger,” John said when Sherlock’s elbow poked him in the ribs.

          “We used to be smaller,” Sherlock countered.

          Neither of them seemed to realize that Harry’s old bed stood empty less than an arm’s length away.

          “Don’t fart on me,” John said, half asleep. They snickered weakly.

 

******

 

          “Good morning sweetheart,” John’s warmly amused voice said huskily in Sherlock’s ear.

          Sherlock’s eyes flew open; he was curled up in John’s arms, his face pressed to John’s chest. Shit! He sat up so fast his head spun as if the room were whirling around him.

          “Not the nicest reaction from someone waking up in my bed that I’ve ever gotten,” John said, and moaned when Sherlock jumped off the bed. “Christ, my head.”

          He seconded that notion. The dizziness and pain were so severe that Sherlock sank back down to the bed. John whimpered when the mattress moved. “Ohhh,” Sherlock breathed, slowly lowering himself back down, “Ohhh dear Lord.”

          “Mum,” John whimpered softly, “help.”

          Helpless as two babes in swaddling clothes, they huddled in the center of the mattress and waited for death. Help finally arrived in the most unsympathetic form of Mrs. Watson, who flicked on the light and cheerfully asked them if they wanted breakfast before church?

          Sherlock went green and John pulled a pillow over his head, calling a her a mean, evil woman. She cackled and closed the door, leaving them to their misery. About ten minutes later, however, she arrived with a tray of tea, glasses of fizzy water, and paracetamol, as well as two chilled flannels. “Get that in you and put the clothes over your eyes, you puling infants,” She instructed, “You younger lot, no stamina.”

          “I think I need a basin,” John whinged.

          “Man up, Johnny.”

          “Shhh,” Sherlock shushed them, rubbing his tender temples gingerly.

          “Don’t shush me in my own home, William Holmes. The two of you are a sad example of manhood. I hope you realize now that a man doesn’t have to drink to excess. Just remember, next time you won’t have a nice sympathetic mum to bring you things to ease your suffering.”

          “Sympathetic?” Sherlock mouthed.

          John sniggered and then subsided when his mother narrowed her eyes. “Get some sleep, the pair of you. If you’re not up and looking halfway human by the time I’m back from Mass I’ll come in this room with a soup pot and ladle, don’t think I won’t.”

          “She will, too,” John sighed once she had gone.

          “Your mother is an evil genius,” Sherlock agreed.

          “God, my head is killing me,” John groaned.

          “Rub your temples like this,” Sherlock instructed, demonstrating.

          “It feels better when you do it,” John mumbled fractiously. “Do me again.”

          “But then no one is rubbing _my_ temples.”

          “Here,” John said, and put his fingers on Sherlock’s temples and rubbing. Sherlock closed his eyes and resumed rubbing John’s head. “Oh God, that’s brilliant. I’m not moving, just going to stay like this until I die, which will hopefully be soon.”

          “People will talk,” Sherlock murmured.

          “Let ‘em. Do you really want to stop?”

          No. “No.”

          John sighed and wiggled and scooted a little closer, “No fair, your arms are longer than mine.” The new position put him closer to Sherlock, so that they were practically belly to belly, but it allowed Sherlock more leverage to massage even better than before.

          Thank all the deities in which he put no faith that his body was currently incapable of any stirrings. There was his fantasy embodied in his best friend, legs practically tangled together, mere inches away, moaning quite luxuriously as he rubbed Sherlock’s face. If it had been another body part being rubbed this would be almost exactly like the very vivid imaging he indulged in when his transport wouldn’t allow him to ignore its needs any longer.

          No! Cease thinking of those furtive, glorious, self-administered rubbings! Apparently his transport had some life in it yet and was attempting to salute his extremely lurid mental images.

          “Uh—” Suddenly John rolled away, eyes averted, cursing quietly as his sense of balance betrayed him and he nearly went face first into the wall, “Gotta—um, the loo!”

          Sherlock’s face heated to some colour beyond mere red as he watched his best friend dash out of the room as if the bedsheets were on fire. This was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him. He’d never be able to face John again after rubbing his erection against him. Ignoring his head, Sherlock snatched up his shoes and fled the house; he couldn’t beat to face John’s disgust.

          In the toilet, John pressed his forehead to the door and listened to the sound of his best friend fleeing in disgust. Jesus, what was wrong with him? He tried and he tried so hard not to give in to these feelings for Sherlock and ages would go by and he’d feel like he was finally mastering that part of himself that couldn’t stop thinking about him…and then something like this would happen.

          Well, not precisely like this. He’d shared a bed with Sherlock before of course, but not in ages, and not while his defenses were down due to far too many pints, and not when they were so close and he could feel the warmth of his body and bliss out to the feel of his touch, and imagine how fucking lovely it would be if he just leaned forward and kissed those lips that he saw in his fucking dreams.

          “I’m so fucked up,” John moaned, thumping his head against the door. He wanted to punish himself for wrecking the best goddamned friendship he’d ever had—ever would have. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John had these damned dangerous, inconvenient feelings for him. John’s teasing aside, he knew the other man wasn’t really interested in sex. He believed in the triumph of the mind over the body, and he succeeded. Except when horny John Watson was rubbing his cock against him and wishing he could—

          This was pointless. He refused to give himself release and it hurt too much to think about all the many ways in which he could never love Sherlock Holmes. He was only home for a few more days. He’d planned all sorts of schemes but now he was just going to avoid Sherlock and let a few months go by and then they could pretend things were back to normal, maybe.

          Yeah, if Sherlock ever forgave him and could bear to look at him again, they’d go back to being friends. Just needed a little time apart.

 

 


	4. Not A Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly dark; John is suffering from PTSD and is depressed and suicidal, although there are no mentions or attempts of suicide. Drug use is mentioned.

_Useless, useless, useless_. John heard the words in time with his halting steps. _Useless, useless, useless_.

          He heard them when he limped around London, too broke even for the bus. He heard them when he walked into job interviews, trying to be hopeful but mostly just wanting to crawl back into bed. _Useless, useless, useless_ , his brain supplied helpfully as he limped back out of those same interviews, knowing he hadn’t got the position. The echo sounded in his nightmare filled sleep; it pounded with his heart when he got winded struggling up a flight of stairs; it mocked him as he moved like an automaton through his physio routine.

          “How are you feeling today, John?”

          _How the fuck do you think I feel?_ “Good.”

          “Do you want to expand on that?”

          _No I fucking do not_. “…I’ve been on quite a few interviews,” _If you consider two to be quite a few._

          “How’s the job market?”

          _Just ducky, thanks. Don’t you know everyone’s in a tearing hurry to hire a washed up ex-combat surgeon with a tremor, shrapnel in his shoulder, a psychosomatic limp and nightmares so bad the other fucked up vets in his half-way house for fucked up vets pound on the walls and tell him to fucking shut it?_ “Alright…got a few leads.”

          And so on.

          _Useless, useless, useless_.

          The chant has become part of him, immutable. John finds the world slightly muffled as a consequence. John is in a fog, brain hazy from the cocktail of drugs they have him on for PTSD, anxiety, depression, insomnia and just plain fuck-upped-ness. Maybe it was a mistake to come here, to London, where he knows no one, and everything costs too much, more than he could afford even if he was existing on more than his Army pension.

          But Christ, he couldn’t have gone home; home to his Mum, who has remarried and is raising her step-granddaughter and has a pregnant Golden Retriever due any day, and a thriving garden and far too many joys and responsibilities to take on her son. Her fucked up twenty-six year old son who can’t even make it through the night without waking himself screaming. John’s not intruding on her peaceful life.

          Harry had offered him her spare room, money, new clothes, a mobile, support. She was doing really well for herself—if you ignored her raging alcoholism—and didn’t mind flaunting it. After two days he basically told her to piss off. But he kept the phone. It was nice, and he needed one. He needed a way to be able to reach Mum once weekly. She’d told him if he didn’t call her by Sunday tea time each week she was coming up to London, protesting Graham, rambunctious six year old Jasmine, pregnant Dorrie, garden rakes and all. She’d do it too. _Your mother is an evil genius_ , he heard Sherlock’s voice echo in his head. Among the last words they’d spoken, all of which were seared in his memory, as was the shame that he’d driven his best friend away.

          Somehow John’s cowardly few months had morphed into nearly a year, and calling or writing seemed impossible after all that time had gone by. He’d come home in between his first and second tours, intending on going up to Musgrave Hall and knocking on the door and asking if Sherlock was home for the summer. But he’d chickened out; he’d stopped in at the Red Lion for a spot of liquid courage and heard the gossip.

          Sherlock Holmes had a boyfriend.

          Funny how you could keep on going even when someone had scooped out your insides.

          Now it was gone six, nearly seven, years and not a word had passed between them since that godawful morning in his bed. Mum would keep him updated on all the gossip from home, and of course Sherlock’s name came up; his brilliance, the time he got bored during a lecture and climbed out the window of his classroom and went wading in a nearby fountain, how he’d “deduced” the new butcher and what a scandal it was. The last few years she hadn’t really mentioned him. A blessing-curse situation, that. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost, but he also had a selfish need to know that all was well.

          Last he’d heard the boyfriend thing hadn’t worked out. There were rumbles that he had dropped out of Cambridge; that he’d disappeared for a while. Nervous breakdown, a lot of people speculated; stood to reason, didn’t it? He was a strange one.

          John didn’t give any credence to the idea of Sherlock in some sort of nut house; he might be melodramatic and brilliant to the point of madness, and so infuriating that he kept his best friend’s skills at defending against bullies on the go, but he wasn’t someone that needed to be sectioned, not even temporarily. He needed an outlet for his genius that was all. _And someone to keep a weather eye on him_ , John’s conscious whispered. Sherlock’s brilliance and his isolation from peers tended to give him a cold edge; it was one of the reasons they had worked so well as friends. John softened him, filtered his less appealing tendencies, and Sherlock was an excellent whetstone for John’s intellect, as well as a cooling bath for John’s temper. He had always been able to direct or blunt John’s red-eyed rages.

          _Wonder if he’s doing alright without me?_ John wondered, lying on his neatly made bed in his neat, bland, featureless room. It was clear that he, John, wasn’t coping too well. Civilian life, particularly as an adult, it was foreign to him. He was a glittering blade rusting uselessly in a drawer, forgotten and abandoned. He was an empty shell of an operating theatre; ramshackle, overgrown, no use to anyone.

          Ella had counseled him to redirect his thoughts when they started down that path. But it was bloody hard. There wasn’t anything for him to do. No way to divert his mind from the dark woods he was lost in. John squeezed his eyes shut, picturing a small boy with a walkie-talkie. _Are you there, Blackbeard? Come in, Blackbeard? What’s your position?_

          “Are you there, Blackbeard?”

          Fuck, maybe he was really crazy. Talking to himself; stuck in the past; recalling things through a rosy glass. Sherlock hadn’t been perfect, and he hadn’t been perfect either.

          But together…ah, together they were better. Or had been. Who knew what it would be like now, if they met face to face?

 

******

 

          Right. So, here he was, kidnapped; not all that scary. Particularly when he saw the dapper man waiting for him…something familiar… “Mycroft?” John said in disbelief as he watched a supercilious brow rise.

          “John Watson,” Sherlock’s elder brother slithered in his unbearably clipped and toffee-nosed way.

          Some things hadn’t changed. Still gay and hiding it, still annoying as piss, still a ridiculous dresser. “If you wanted to say hello, you could have picked up the phone,” John said politely, leaning on his cane.

          “I could say the same to you,” the other man countered, leaning on his umbrella. They stared at one another for a quiet moment.

          “Something I can do for you? Need a plaster? Friendly drink down at the local?”

          “Sherlock has gone missing again. I very much fear he’s back on drugs.”

          “You just dropped a bombshell on me like that?” John bit out after a stunned moment. Drugs? Sherlock was using? What the fuck? “I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years? And you snatch me off the street and just tell me Sherlock’s missing and he’s using drugs?”

          A wiser man would have been worried when John hooked his cane over the unused folding chair that stood between them, and let his hands hang loose at his sides. “What kind of drugs? When did you last see him? Any idea on where he might be—or who he might be with?”

          Mycroft took out a gold case, tapped an unfiltered cigarette on the case and then lit it with a matching gold lighter. John laughed soundlessly, same pretentious tit; god, they used to love to take the piss out of him when he was home from school. Sherlock had delighted in listening to John attempt to take his overbearing brother down a peg or two. He’d even managed it once or twice. “Laugh away, Doctor Watson. My only concern is my brother. He is—fragile. I’ve managed to keep him clean for three years, safe, sane.” For the first time his pinched face took on a look of humanity. “I can’t go through this again. And I’m very much afraid he won’t make it if he has to face this again.”

          “How bad was it?”

          “University did not provide enough stimulation for him, nor companions who were suitable. He allowed himself to be flattered and coerced by his _companion_ , Victor. You know how deeply my brother allows himself to feel for select individuals.” John flinched at Mycroft’s searching look, “Or perhaps you don’t.”

          Twat.

          “Regardless, he was quite enamoured of Victor; they were inseparable for nearly a year. We had to suffer Christmas holidays with his presence, as Sherlock refused to let him go home to his own family. He was quite obsessed.”

          “How is this helping?” John asked brusquely, resisting the urge to rub his tight chest.

          “When things ended, as such things do, my baby brother was devastated. He stopped attending classes, refused to return my phone calls, and when our parents went to see him in person, he escaped out the window and disappeared for three days.” Mycroft studied an oil patch on the ground. “I took a leave of absence from work and went in search of him. Do you know where I found him?”

          Without waiting for John’s answer, Mycroft continued, “In the most appalling doss house. The sort of place homeless junkies are drawn to; filthy, abandoned, unsafe and teeming with rats of both the two- and four-legged variety. He was out of his mind, strung out on heroin.”

          “Christ,” John said, giving in to the need to rub at his chest. He hung his head, not wanting Mycroft to see his face. He blinked against the sting of tears. _Sherlock. Oh Sherlock_.

          “Quite. It turns out that this was not his first foray into the world of illegal drugs. Victor was an eager tutor. Sherlock had been experimenting for quite some time, apparently.” Mycroft sighed, “I got him out of there, straight into a clinic equipped to deal with that sort of thing. He cleaned up, apologized, and agreed to return to his courses. Six months later he disappeared. That time he was gone for nearly a month before I found him.

          “He was in and out of rehab several times over the next two years, and at last he seemed on a steady course. He moved here to London so I could keep an eye on him; he’s set himself up as a sort of armchair detective,” Mycroft smiled faintly at John’s look of surprise, “Yes. And he seemed to be doing well. And then four days ago my agents lost track of him.”

          _Pity them_ , John thought briefly, a trace of amusement flitting through his worried thoughts. Mycroft Holmes hadn’t been anyone to dick about with when he was sixteen and he would be less so now. Particularly when it came to his baby brother. “No idea where he might be?”

          “As a matter of fact, a member of his, erm, _homeless network_ , revealed that he had seen Sherlock in a rotting warehouse near the Thames just this morning.”

          “Then why the _fuck_ haven’t you collected him, Mycroft? Jesus!” John ran a hand through his hair, avoided the desire to snatch up the chair and hammer it on the ground until it was just scrap.

          “Much though I would like to coordinate an extraction, it would do little good in the long run. He and I, we are rather at odds these days. In our youth it was the typical elder sibling-younger sibling squabbles and feuds, but still and all, when he needed me, I was there. He shared his fears and worries; he occasionally even listened to my counsel.” Mycroft seemed to be recalling something that left him looking sad, as if he could see a younger version of Sherlock coming to him for advice. “Now, now I am afraid I have quite alienated him in my eagerness to save him.” Mycroft looked regretful, and John softened toward him slightly.

          “What good do you think I’m going to do?” John finally asked. “We haven’t seen one another in years. I-I don’t mean anything to him any longer.” He swallowed the heavy lump that never dislodged from his throat whenever he thought of Sherlock, “I’m not a friend any longer.”

          “I think you’ll find that to be untrue, John. No matter the time which has elapsed, you and he share a bond which transcends time and distance. Now, if we might address the matter at hand? I have a car prepared to take you to his location. Will you collect him and take him home? My car is at your disposal, and the driver can provide back up as needed.”

          “Of course,” John agreed, “Of course I’ll go.” Anything for Sherlock.

 

******

 

          “Come on, love,” John whispered encouragingly, hefting Sherlock’s not inconsiderable weight with his right arm whilst guiding them out of the warehouse. He was fairly certain that he could just give most of these junkies a gentle push and be on his way, but there was the rather stroppy gatekeeper to contend with. John had leveled him with a kick to the side of his knee and a punch to the ear that left him shaken and dazed but he was liable to be there when they came out. Hopefully the driver would lend a hand, as John’s left arm wasn’t strong enough to support Sherlock and definitely not strong enough to fight off an attacker one-handed.

          Sherlock’s feet stumbled, and his knees occasionally sagged but he seemed to be just coherent enough to realize they were walking. He mumbled and swayed, left arm draped around John’s shoulders, head listing to the left. “Almost there,” John said bracingly, fingers woven through the belt loops on Sherlock’s trousers. If he went down they were going down together. “I’ve got you. Just a bit farther and then you can lie down.”

          The gatekeeper was nowhere to be seen when they stumbled out into the night; the city sky was cloudy and murky with light pollution, and the faint, dirty traces of snow almost looked pristine in the strange, milky light. The car purred, plumes of exhaust spiraling into the frosty air. “Do you need a hand, sir?” The driver cum bodyguard asked politely, opening the rear door of the Jaguar. “He looks heavy.”

          “He’s not heavy,” John demurred, not wanting to relinquish Sherlock to anyone else. He maneuvered, manipulated, shoved and cajoled Sherlock into the rear of the car and huffed a laugh when the other man stopped. Head resting on his arms, arse in the air, feet still sticking out the door. “C’mon,” John coaxed, giving Sherlock’s bum a tap. “Move those long legs, mate.”

          “You can sit up front with me,” the driver offered.

          “Naw, I need to keep an eye on him,” John said. He leaned in the car, rubbed Sherlock’s back through his too-thin hoodie, “Sherlock? Love, can you budge over? Just a bit. Just a tiny bit of room for old John, eh?”

          “John?” Sherlock’s head rose unsteadily, “John?”

          “That’s right, John.” He rubbed his back, shoved at his hips, crowding him into the car as Sherlock inched forward. “Thanks, just a hairsbreadth of room is all I need anyway, right?”

          For a man who had barely seemed aware of his surroundings, and who John had all but manhandled into the car, Sherlock turned around with surprising ease, although John had to duck to avoid being kicked in the head more than once in the process. He plopped down, head on John’s thigh and wriggled fretfully, mumbling. John looked down at him, swallowing hard at the changes since the last time he’d seen the other man. He looked younger than his years, still, but older, and wearier somehow. His lean frame had fleshed out; Sherlock was still a rangy man but he was no longer skinny. He was wearing his hair longer, and his clothes were—despite being dirty and wrinkled—the sort of things a stylish young man of means might wear. Gone were his jeans, threadbare jumpers and high topped trainers.

          Running his fingers through the tangled curls, John tilted his head and studied the details of Sherlock’s face with hungry eyes; it was late, the streets were quiet. It wouldn’t take all that long to get to wherever Sherlock lived. He didn’t have much time.

          It took both of them to get Sherlock out of the car and up the short flight of steps to the front door of the very nice building in a very nice part of town where his friend apparently lived. They must have been expected, because the driver rapped the knocker and the door opened almost right away. An elderly woman fluttered at the sight of them, “Oh, Sherlock!” She stepped out of the way and held the door. “It’s at the top of the stairs, the door on the right.” She ran ahead and opened the flat door, as they managed to get him up the stairs with no small degree of difficulty.

          The walk down the short hallway and into the bedroom seemed long, and John realized he was sweating; after weeks in a hospital bed he was out of shape, despite his physio, and feeling winded. “I’ve got it from here,” he thanked the other man, shaking his hand.

          “Do you need some help, dear?” The woman asked, face anxious as she looked again at Sherlock’s limp form on the bed. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, I’m his landlady.”

          “John Watson—an old, um, acquaintance,” John said, sticking out a hand. He expected a handshake; what he got was hands to cheeks and an excited gasp.

          “You’re John!”

          “Yeah…”

          “Sherlock’s John! Oh my! Oh goodness, he’ll be so happy to see you, dear, when he wakes up.”

          He would? “He will? We, uh, we haven’t seen one another in a bit.”

          “He talks about you sometimes, when he’s in a good mood, his friend John,” the woman ran on, beaming at John as if he’d just made her very happy, “Mind you, he always gets sad after, and plays his violin until all hours and I have to bang on the ceiling with a broom.” She patted his hand, “I’ll go make you some tea, dear. You look peaky.”

          Left alone, John crouched next to the bed and checked out his patient. Vital signs were good, all things considered. He stood up and took off his coat, went to find the loo, washed his hands and face and took a damp flannel in to wash Sherlock’s face and hands. John was stroking Sherlock’s curls off his forehead when Mrs. Hudson came back. She twittered happily at the sight and John went red, feeling caught out. He didn’t have any right to touch Sherlock like that, especially when he was asleep.

          It took some doing, but eventually John put a bit of Captain Watson in his voice and sent Mrs. Hudson down to her flat to get some rest. He intended on pulling the straight backed chair across the room and keeping vigil, but he must have been more tired than he thought. Promising himself it was only for a few minutes, John eased himself down next to the other man’s peacefully slumbering form and folded his hands over his stomach; fifteen minutes rest and then he’d be set.

         

******

 

          “Oh!”

          Panic sent his heart thundering in his chest and John struggled to sit up. Something had him ensnared however, and he looked around in confusion. He was…in Sherlock’s room…in Sherlock’s bed…very snugly in Sherlock’s arms.

          “I didn’t mean to disturb you boys,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, eyes bright as she surveyed the scene before her. “There was a delivery for you, Doctor Watson.”

          “Oh?” John asked, clearing his throat. Sherlock was still asleep, snoring faintly, a half smile on his face. John, distracted, stared at him a beat too long, and then recalled where he was. “I’ll get up.”

          Extricating himself proved difficult, as every time he tried to move, Sherlock grumbled and pouted and grabbed a new part of him. John went a bit red when Sherlock put a proprietary hand over his crotch and snuggled his face into John’s arm pit. Mrs. Hudson tittered and left the room. John finally wriggled out of those long octopus arms and left the bed, hastily trying to bring order to his hair and clothes and heart. He realized they were covered by an orange coverlet that looked a good deal like the kind of shock blanket they carried on ambulances. Mrs. Hudson must have ignored his order to get some sleep and come to check on them in the night.

          Mrs. Hudson was in the sitting room, directing two young men in somber suits as they carried in takeaways boxes, his cane and…and…his rucksack and suitcase? What in the bloody hell? “Hold on a tick…what’s going on?”

          “Mr. Holmes tasked us with delivering breakfast, and your belongings.” The young man who held John’s cane smiled slightly, “He asked me to give you a message: Tell Doctor Watson that it would take a more foolhardy man than he to eat anything that comes out of the kitchen at Baker Street. Inform him also that his therapist is correct, it _is_ a psychosomatic limp,” he held out the cane, “and please let him know that the worst of his nightmares is at an end.” Dropping the slightly rote tone of voice, “He said you’d know what he meant.”

          Nightmares. He’d slept—John checked his watch—seven hours. Seven hours straight. Deep, peaceful hours of sleep. Not one single nightmare. In fact, he felt great, all things considered. Taking his cane and tossing it on the sofa, John thanked them and took a peek in the containers. Top notch breakfast, ta very much Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson was even now bustling about making tea. John looked in, “Need a hand?”

          “No, dear, I’ve got this under control. Why don’t you go check on Sherlock? I’m sure he could use a hearty bite. He never eats enough as it is.” She tsked.

          “Yeah, I’ll do that,” John started to leave, turned back. “Mrs. Hudson, you really didn’t need to check on us last night. But thanks for the blanket.”

          “Blanket, dear? I didn’t bring you boys any blanket, although I should have done. It gets a bit nippy in the front bedroom what with those big windows.”

          John, mind racing, turned to go check on Sherlock and found he was facing the other man, who stood in the door to his room. Sherlock was disheveled, with a very disreputable appearance, and John knew he smelled a bit off from his few days mucking about in drug dens. None of that mattered. His heart clenched inside him, breath stuttering in his lungs, and he realized he was smiling, ear to ear, “Sherlock.”

          “Hello John.”


	5. Not A Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's perspectives on the morning after and where they think they're going next. There's a dark moment for John.

          While his experience at burying his emotions stood him in good stead, Sherlock was aware that coming down from his binge had weakened his defenses. If he’d had more time to prepare, he would have shored up his sagging bulwarks and been able to sail through the encounter with John.

          Instead, when his old friend smiled at him as if the sight of Sherlock was the one thing he had needed to make him happy, Sherlock found himself moving forward on autopilot. He couldn’t _not_ hug John. How many hugs had they shared over the years since they first became friends? He—for all his prodigious memory—had lost count. But they felt the same, he discovered, trying to still the fine shaking in his arms, as John wrapped him tight and muttered unintelligible things into his shoulder.

          “Thank Christ you’re alright,” he finally made out, when John raised his head. Sherlock felt a pang when he saw the redness of John’s eyes. John had never cried easily, but he was clearly emotional at the circumstances of their reunion. “What were you thinking? Heroin? I ought to kick your arse all the way back home and then let Mum at you.”

          Sherlock blanched at the idea of Mrs. Watson’s rage if she found out he had used drugs, much less that her son had come after him in such a place. Stupidly he hadn’t considered that.

          “I’m fine, John,” he said, trying to move away. John was still standing too close, face tipped up to him. He’d forgotten—rather, tried to erase—how it made him feel when John looked up at him like that. All the drugs in the world hadn’t been able to obliterate John Watson from his mind. None of them had come close to matching the exhilarating high from being near him. Oh god, his palms were sweating just like they had when he was fifteen.

          “We’re going to talk, you and me,” John promised, frowning. “But not right now. Right now you’re going to have a shower and then come eat. Titcroft sent breakfast.”

          An involuntary smile turned up his lips; he’d forgotten how John could match him insult for insult when it came to Mycroft. Speaking of whom…he needed to make a call. Excusing himself he headed for the shower, faltering slightly when John’s calm, raised voice instructed him not to lock the door. So he was to be under observation if he lingered too long. Undressing rapidly, Sherlock turned on the water and dialed Mycroft.

          “Your interference is not appreciated.”

          “Nonsense. You got exactly what you wanted.” Mycroft’s voice contained a hint of exasperation, “One could wish you had chosen another method with which to lure John Watson back into your orbit.”

          “I was not even aware he was in London,” Sherlock denied. He sniffed under his arm and grimaced.

          “Please. Your subterfuge is glaringly obvious. Luckily he will fail to notice, as he always did attribute you a less manipulative nature than you possess. I wonder if the ravages of war have removed his rosy glasses where you are concerned?”

          Halfway through shoving his hand through his tangled curls, Sherlock’s grip tightened on his hair, he hated to think of John in danger, without him there to watch his back. He could catalogue each and every injury he had sustained; John’s mental state was written just as clearly on his face, if one knew how to read him. He’d acted swiftly when he caught sight of John that day five days prior; suicidal ideation was present in every tensed muscle, in his shaking hands and blank stare. If he believed in a higher power, Sherlock would have gone down on his knees in gratitude that his path had crossed that of John. Any longer and he might have been too late.

          Delving back into the world of heroin use was a small price to pay to save John Watson.

          “I’ve got to go. Must shower before John comes in, do-gooder desire to save me from the needle at the fore.”

          “You could cut to the chase if you wait for him, naked.” Mycroft paused, coughed delicately, “Although perhaps you wish to cleanse yourself first. Your descent into the underworld always leaves you…fragrant.”

          “Piss off,” Sherlock growled, flushing.

          “We’re not done talking, little brother.”

          “I can hardly wait for the lecture. Oh wait, I _can_.”

          Ending the call, Sherlock hurried into the shower. He’d far rather follow it up with a long soak in the tub, but needs must. Scrubbing himself head to toe, he washed his hair twice, conditioned it (a must, else his curls would rebel) and rinsed. Wrapping himself in a towel, he stepped out onto the rug, debating on whether or not he should shave. Deciding he would, if only so he felt better armoured against his inconvenient emotions, Sherlock brushed his teeth, smoothed product in his hair and applied anti-perspirant. He had one arm raised when John gave a perfunctory knock, stuck his head in the room and asked, “Nearly done? Food’s going to get cold.”

          Sherlock didn’t miss how John’s eyes checked him out, the doctor in him automatically rising to the fore. He felt exposed in his damp towel, aware that the position of his arm allowed John to see the track marks normally hidden by his long sleeves. John’s eyes went dark, and Sherlock staved off a shiver; he was not looking forward to their talk, particularly if John was angry. “Erm, yes. I was just going to shave…”

          “Leave it,” John suggested. He stepped forward, reached out, brushed a finger over Sherlock’s jaw, “Stubble suits you…and it’s ginger.” He smiled directly into Sherlock’s eyes, “Very sexy.”

          Leaving a breathless and startled man behind, John walked into the sitting room.

 

******

 

          “Look,” John said in exasperation, having forgotten just how impossible it was to argue against the brothers when they presented a united front, “This is not a solution. Me moving in is no guarantee this idiot won’t go back to the needle. And, shit… I have my own problems.”

          “Symbiosis,” Mycroft said.

          “Mm,” agreed Sherlock.

          “Halitosis,” chipped in John. They looked at him quizzically, “I thought we were saying words that end in _sis_. Is that not what we’re doing?” He groaned, “Can you two not do that thing were you communicate telepathically and then look down on us mere mortals?”

          “Mycroft was just suggesting that it would benefit both of us for you to live here.” Sherlock looked remote. Following their rather awkward breakfast he had shaved, dressed in a sleek pair of trousers, a button down shirt that was far too tight for John’s comfort but which was at least partially concealed by a two-button suit jacket, and Oxfords. He seemed so coordinated, so closed off, alien to John’s memories of him. He was afraid to hug him now, to swat his arm for fear he’d leave wrinkles. Maybe that was why he’d done it. Distance. As if they hadn’t had enough of that.

          “You don’t want me here,” John said heavily, thinking of his nightmares, his rages, the black depression he wallowed in daily. “I can’t afford the rent, for one thing.”

          Sherlock waved his hand, “I’ve got that covered. My work is going quite well.” His eyes altered, lighting up with that excited gleam that he used to get when they were young, “You would be an invaluable help to me, actually! I need an assistant, John, someone with medical knowledge, who knows how to handle themselves.”

          “Partner,” John countered, sipping his tea. He smiled, “I’m no one’s assistant.”

          “Partners,” They ignored Mycroft’s scoff, eyeing one another. John smiled, feeling the moment when Sherlock caved. “Yes, alright,” he said, as if it didn’t matter.

          “Brilliant,” John stretched, propping his socked feet on the coffee table. “When do I start?” He dunked his biscuit in his cup and popped it in his mouth.

          “Actually, I have several interesting cases I’d like to explore,” Shelrock said eagerly, hopping about. “Go away, fatty,” he waved a dismissive hand at his brother, who sighed long-sufferingly but rose.

          “John, a moment of your time if you please?” John followed him downstairs, wary. If Mycroft tried to warn him off…

          “Sherlock didn’t lie; he does indeed receive remuneration for his cases. However, it is not always very much, and often he gets so distracted by the mystery that he fails to collect his earnings.” Mycroft fit his leather gloves on with painstaking care. “This week’s indulgence aside, he has not faltered in his sobriety. However, it is always dangerous when he does succumb, as he is more likely to suffer a relapse. Additionally, as you can see, he is too thin. He fails to eat enough, does not take care of himself, avoids sleep in the interest of work, makes enemies by merely opening his mouth, and he constantly puts himself in dangerous situations.”

          “Trying to scare me off?” John chuckled.

          Mycroft lifted his eyes to the ceiling, sighed. Oh silly, stupid John, mustn’t annoy Mycroft and his big, lofty brain. “In a word, no. I’m trying to recruit you. I’d like to recompense you for watching him.”

          “Oh. Money. Yeah, that’d be great.” John stuck his hand out, “How about a retainer? Say—and I’m not being greedy here, this is pure practicality—five hundred quid? And then monthly, you can deposit in my account, oh—”

          “A thousand?” Mycroft removed his wallet from his inner coat pocket, peeled off money and tucked it in John’s shirt pocket. “He’s an expensive man. I’ve given you a sign on bonus.”

          “London’s a very pricy place, and he’s a very difficult man,” John said, patting his pocket with a happy smile. “Two thousand a month sounds more like it.”

          A slight narrowing of the eyes, “Two thousand it is.” They shook and Mycroft opened the outside door, turning when John called his name.

          “I’d have done it for a thousand,” John gave him a lopsided smile.

          “I’d have paid you five thousand.” Mycroft smiled sweetly and closed the door.

          “Bugger,” John laughed admiringly and jogged up the stairs. He swung into the flat, rubbing his hands together. “Just took your brother for a thousand. And more each month.”

          “You should have asked for more,” Sherlock said absently, peering through the lens of the microscope on the kitchen table. He looked up, smiling, “He’d have paid more.”

          “We can always blackmail him for more,” John suggested easily.

          “Mm. Let’s.”

          “This’ll do for a start,” John grinned at him, feeling a return of their old easy friendship. “I’m going to get my things settled. Where am I going to sleep?” He hoped he wasn’t blushing as he thought about waking up with Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around him. “I can kip on the couch.”

          “There’s a bedroom up the stairs, the narrow door opposite the toilet,” Sherlock resumed staring at his slide. “If there aren’t sheets and things in the linen cupboard I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has something.” Raising his voice he shouted, “Mrs. Hudson!”

          “Don’t shout like that,” John reproved him, “She’s an elderly woman…and she isn’t your servant.”

          “Best not let her hear you call her elderly,” Sherlock suggested, “She’s got a temper hiding behind those cardigans.”

          “So have I,” John remarked, “So don’t let me catch you trying to keep her hopping at your beck and call, Sherlock.” He collected his things, kicking the cane under the sofa, and headed for the stairs. “Gonna get settled. Shout if you need me.”

          It was a decent room, bit small, but larger than his room at the halfway house. The steeply pitched ceiling was painted cream, as was the trim, and the walls were papered in a dark blue with a faint quatrefoil pattern of lighter blue. A ponderous chest of drawers bearing a mirror with a crack running through it, mismatched bedside tables, a clutter of lamps, a hooked rug, a straight backed chair with a cushion, and a narrow bed were all the items in the room.

          He’d had worse. It needed a bit of a dust, which he could take care of; John bundled up the sheets the furniture had been draped in, and set them on the chair. It didn’t take long to put his clothes in the drawers, his spare pair of shoes fitting underneath. Making a mental list, he plugged in his mobile charger, put pen and paper in the bedside table, along with a travel packet of tissues, the paperback he’d been half reading for months, and a few bits and bobs. His laptop was old and battered but functional, and he had left it downstairs next to Sherlock’s sleeker model.

          Bulbs for the lamps, hangers for the hooks on the wall behind the door, another rug and a new pillow, John reflected. Frames for his pictures…

          John pulled the small, flat box he’d kept them in out of his rucksack, running his hand over the top. It was an old tin box, pressed and painted, looking a bit scuffed and chipped now. Sherlock had given it to him when he joined, mentioning that it would give him a place to keep letters and things. The dark haired boy and the blonde haired boy on the cover, wearing rolled leg trousers, white shirts and coloured neckerchiefs, their feet bare, waded through a stream. It was an odd little box, it had water-stained cork lining, which still smelled faintly of mysterious things; almost illegible lettering in the corner proclaimed “Gerard’s Finest Tips.” The blonde boy was half out of the stream, holding out a hand for the other lad, whose finger tips touched his. They were perpetually smiling, pink cheeked, young and adventurous and free.

          John brushed his fingers over the image and then flipped up the stiff metal clasp, pried up the lid, inhaling deeply as always. He’d jealously guarded the box over the years, afraid to let the smell dissipate. Although it smelled nothing like home, he always feared that the essence of home and safety and his friendship with Sherlock would fade if the box were opened too often. Inside were select letters, mostly from his friend, although he’d saved one or two from his Mum. Under the letters were photographs.

          Mum and Gran smiling on the steps of the house, arms around one another’s waists; Harry with an unaccustomed smile on her face; Winston panting adoringly at the camera. Ten year old Sherlock in his great-coat, brandishing the ornamental sword which had belonged to the great-great-great-great grandfather who had fought alongside Wellington. Thirteen year old Sherlock, trying not to smile as he stood next to his science fair entry, a first place ribbon on his chest. Seventeen year old Sherlock, face pressed to John’s, head back, eyes exaggeratedly wide and his lips turned up in a goofy smile, John’s eye squinched shut, his mouth almost smiling. He recalled precisely the feel of Sherlock’s cheek on his, the smell of his shampoo, the heat which had emanated from his friend’s body as they mugged for Mum’s camera.

          That was almost his favourite picture. His absolute favourite was one he had snapped the day before he left for Induction. They’d spent the day going to all their favoured spots, eating chips, climbing trees, scaling the old stable roof at Musgrave Hall and lying on their backs, silent. John blushed as he remembered how he had reached for Sherlock, wound their fingers together. He’d felt his friend freeze, and then slowly relax. They’d spent an hour just lying there together, no words passing between them. On the way back to John’s house Sherlock had been ahead of him on the footbridge, dappled by shadow, the neck of his white shirt loose, and his curls brushing the nape of his neck. Throat tight, John had snapped a blurry picture of him walking away, and when Sherlock heard the shutter he’d looked back.

          That’s when John had gotten it. The perfect picture. Sky blue eyes quizzical and soft, pink lips quirked in a smile, his fringe a little too long, and his neck impossibly so as it disappeared into the open placket of his shirt, the shadow of his clavicle a dark well. _I love you_ , John had thought, and captured the moment.

          God, he still did. It didn’t matter how much time passed, he still loved him. Stupid, impossible love. It didn’t make any difference that Sherlock was gay; not if he didn’t view John as anything more than a friend. He had run from John that now-distant morning in John’s bed, stayed away for years, no more contact after that. It was clear he hadn’t wanted anything more than friendship. It was clear now that he was still uncomfortable with John.

          That morning in the shower room the other man had flinched when John stuck his head in the room, fidgeted uneasily as he looked him over—God, he’d been unable to help himself—and frozen in dismay when John had stupidly touched his face and told him his stubble was sexy. It wasn’t possible for John not to have touched him, just once. His heart had been beating madly, a joyful refrain of _He’s back, He’s back, He’s back_ thundering in John’s chest. Sherlock had hurriedly dressed in as many layers as possible without putting on his outerwear, and had since kept the length of the room between them.

          Right. Got it. Just friends. Any hint of anything else and he’d lose him again. And John Watson would be good and god-damned if he lost Sherlock Holmes again.

 

******

 

          _He’s back, he’s back, he’s back_ , Sherlock’s inner voice sang happily; he had timed his steps to it and as a consequence, John, limp forgotten, had to quick step with his shorter legs. Sherlock would slow down but then the rhythm would take over and he’d be off again.

          “So where are we going?” John panted, ducking into the alleyway after him.

          “Crime scene,” Sherlock resisted the urge to walk faster, “There’s been a murder!”

          “Right. Possibly less smiling then.”

          “Oh?” He slowed, “Was I smiling?”

          “Yeah,” John caught up with him, grinned, “That same smile you used to get when you were deep in an interesting experiment.” He shook his head fondly, “Glad to see some things haven’t changed.”

          “Oi! Freak, keep back!” Sally Donovan, Sergeant with New Scotland Yard, was a minor nemesis, but an annoying one. “This is a crime scene, closed to the public, get it?” She scowled at John, earning her another black mark in Sherlock’s tally. “Who’s this then? ‘nother psychopath? You start a club?”

          “This is my partner, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock informed her coldly, “He’s here to assist me in my investigations. Stand aside, Donovan, your boss called for me personally.” Without waiting for her to move, Sherlock ducked under the yellow tape and gestured to John to follow. He saw John smirk at Donovan and duck under the tape, breezing past her with a cheerful, “Shove off then.”

          They approached the knot of people gathered halfway down the alley, their Tyvek jump-suited figures casting strange shadows under the harsh lights which had been hastily erected. Sherlock spied LaDue’s silvery hair rising above the shorter forms of the SOCO drones toiling away. No doubt they were trampling all over his crime scene. Typical. Idiots.

          “Boss!” Donovan hurried to overtake them, scowl thunderous, “The Freak’s here and he’s brought his _partner_!” Her voice dripped with innuendo. Sherlock felt his rapidly heating cheeks sting in the frigid air. Everyone within ear shot turned and looked at them. He saw two of the officers exchanging whispers, and then money changed hands, the payee looking annoyed, the other smug.

          “’s’alright, Sal, I called him.” The DI inclined his head, “Sherlock. Who’s this?”

          “Doctor John Watson, late of Her Majesty’s Army. He’s my partner; I refuse to work any longer with the imbeciles you call crime scene techs.” Sherlock swept a negligible hand toward the older man, “John, this is Detective Inspector Greg La Roche.”

          “It’s _Lestrade_ ,” the man said gruffly, but Sherlock had moved on. He vaguely heard them talking behind him, but he tuned out the extraneous noise in favour of examining the body of the woman lying in a puddle in the alley. His pulse raced as he filed away relevant details, pulling out his mobile to flick through dating sites, did a quick Google search for nearby clubs and watering holes, and then moved on to the snow forecast and tide levels in the Thames. “Here’s your man,” he interrupted, shoving his mobile in Lestrange’s face and not waiting for his eyes to focus on the photograph of the smiling man. “He’s done this before, not in London. He’s at work right now; you can collect him at your leisure.” Rattling off the name and address of the pub with ease, Sherlock strutted off, smirking. Expertly, he popped his collar.

          After a startled moment John hurried after him. They left the alley, headed in the opposite direction of Baker Street. Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff, waiting for John’s awe, his questions.

          “You’re still a giant dick, you know that?” John sounded amused. Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, saw John’s half smile. John sounded _fond_. “But, I guess it’s part of your act. Like popping the coat collar—very cool by the way, going to have to steal that—and making a grand pronouncement and then just walking off.” John popped the collar of his sensible, all-weather coat, strutted a bit, “I’m Sherlock Holmes and I solve crimes. Watch out for my giant ego—and my giant cock.” He pretended to walk with difficulty.

          “John!” Sherlock was unable to restrain a shocked laugh, and then he made the mistake of looking at his friend. They burst into giggles, John finally slapping him in the arm, “Stop! Stop…for God’s sake, a woman’s dead.”

          “Yes,” Sherlock said solemnly, nodding, “Shocking. Terrible.”

          John snorted and set them off again, drawing the attention of passersby. “  
Oh tut, tut,” John mocked in a falsetto, “Dearie me, a woman died.” Dropping into his normal register he shook his head, “God, we’re going to hell.” Sly smile, “But what a fun ride it’ll be.”

          Unable to help himself, Sherlock smiled into John’s eyes, “Together then?”

          “Together.” John patted him briefly on the back, dropped his hand, “Now, I’m starving. Let’s go spend some of Mycroft’s money.”

          “Again? You had breakfast. Two breakfasts, actually.”

          “Growing boy,” John stated firmly. “Now. Feed me.”

          “Your wish is my command,” Sherlock gestured grandly, “This way, if you please. Do you still like fish and chips?”

          “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

          “Is it still acceptable to say that?”

          “Eh, I’m Catholic, we get a pass. Confession cleanses the soul, and all that.” John cackled, “Sin all Saturday night and wipe the slate clean come Sunday morning,” he shook his head, “You Protestants are mad.”

          “This way then,” Sherlock was smiling, heart light. He had missed this. “I know a great chip shop; the owner always gives me extra portions.”

          “Friend of yours?”

          “I had him arrested for breaking and entering.”

          “As one does.”

          “Saved him from a murder charge. Did you know,” Sherlock asked as he held open the door and smiled down at John, “That you can tell the quality of a chip shop from their welcome mat?”

          “You don’t say,” John replied, smiling up at him, eyes twinkling, “I want to hear all about it.”

 

******

 

          Normally he wouldn’t sleep two nights in a row; but he was still fatigued from his drug binge. Sherlock watched John mount the stairs, his arse eye-catching in the track suit bottoms he’d changed into after his shower. He could still smell the other man’s shampoo and soap, and underlying it, John’s own scent. Instead of stripping his bed and dropping the sheets down the stairwell for Mrs. Hudson to attend to, Sherlock had left his bed made. He entered his bedroom now, moving to the bed and lying down, rolling to press his face into the pillow which had cradled John’s head the night before.

          His smell was there, faint, but present. Sherlock rolled onto his back and stripped the pillow case off, bringing it to his nose. Luxuriously, he wallowed in his memories, hazy though heroin had rendered them, of the night prior. John calling him love, his muscular body holding Sherlock up, his hands on his arse, the head-whirling sensation Sherlock had experienced when he woke and found that it wasn’t all a dream. John was there, alive and well and in his bed.

          Sherlock had covered them both up and dared to pull John into his arms, falling back asleep before he was ready. In the morning he’d feared it was a dream until he heard John’s voice, deeper than before, but still instantly recognizable, as he chatted with Mrs. Hudson. John Watson was back in his life and he was going to do whatever it took to hang on. This time he wasn’t letting go.

 

******

 

          Shouting woke him. Then—a horrible wailing sound that drew shivers out of Sherlock even as he came to awareness. He heard someone knocking at the flat door but he ignored it and lunged out of bed, face planting when his feet tangled in the sheet. Ignoring his throbbing knees and his possibly scraped palms, he dashed out of the bedroom and was up the stairs in a flash, barging blindly into John’s room.

          Flicking on the overhead light, Sherlock took stock briefly before he took action. John was thrashing on the bed, tangled in his borrowed sheets, which were sweat-soaked. Head thrown back, face red and stricken, awful sobbing noises kept strangling in John’s throat. Flashback, panic attack, likelihood of receiving a blow at least seventy percent if he laid hands on him.

          “John Watson!” Sherlock snapped in his most commanding voice, “Wake up!” Not waiting for a change, he dared to lean over the bed, grabbing John’s arms and shaking him, “It’s Sherlock…you’re—”

          Before he could process it he was on his back on the disordered bedding, John on top of him, powerful hands wrapped around his throat. “Jhn…” Sherlock grunted, not trying to pull his hands away, “Jhn, ‘s me…” Instead he put his hand on John’s face, slapped lightly, and when that didn’t work he apologized silently and put his hand on John’s bare chest, pressing hard on his sternum. John grunted, and Sherlock clapped his hands next to John’s ear. Startled, seeming to come awake, the other man left off trying to strangle him and blinked.

          Sherlock stayed still, watching to see awareness flood John’s face. “Oh God. Oh God, Sherlock…” He doubled over, a sob bursting out of him, “Fuck…I tried to kill you!”

          “John! John, stop this instant!” Sherlock barked, panicking. “I’m fine. You were having a nightmare—”

          “Night terrors,” John sobbed, unable to stop himself, apparently. He was still straddling Sherlock’s legs, his arms up defensively, hands over his face. “Fucking PTSD…”

          “It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said more softly, shifting so he could put his arms around John and urge him to lie down. John folded on top of him and he blinked, realizing they were both naked. “I’m fine, no harm done. You’re alright.” Not giving himself time to be self-conscious, Sherlock wrapped his arms fully around John and spoke softly in his ear, “I’m not going to break and neither are you. You’re stronger than this John. We’ll see it through, together.”

          “I’m so…fucked…up,” John sobbed harshly, fingers digging into Sherlock’s arms, his hot tears falling on his neck, “…just one…God!” A painful sob wracked him, “...just one useless,” His voice broke, and Sherlock’s heart along with it, “…fuck up…”

          “You’re John Watson and you are magnificent,” Sherlock growled, arms tightening, “You’re going to be alright, John. I won’t allow anything else, do you hear me?”

          A strangled sob turned into a choked laugh, and John went limp, turning his face toward Sherlock’s neck. His breath sent shivers throughout Sherlock’s entire body, and he concentrated on not having an entirely inappropriate physical response. They lay quietly, Sherlock petting John’s back, John’s breathing slowly steadying. The frantic knocking from downstairs had ceased, and Sherlock wished he could turn off the light overhead. Although on second thought it was probably wise to keep a light on for John’s sake. It had always helped with his nightmares when he was small. Mycroft forbade the maid from turning off Sherlock’s nightlight when he went away to school and left Sherlock.

          “I’m really sorry, Sherlock,” John said after a long time, moving slightly, as if he would get up, and then settling back down. “I was afraid this would happen.” He sighed wearily, “I can’t get through the night without the dreams coming.”

          “You did last night,” Sherlock reminded him quietly. He turned his head, lips pressing lightly, lightly to John’s soaked hair. “You slept peacefully all night.” He waited a beat, “I think your subconscious knew you weren’t alone. Do you want to try sleeping with me again?” His face flamed hotly and he was grateful John still had his face nestled in Sherlock’s neck. “In the same bed, I mean?” A nod was his answer. “Shall we go down—”His arms tightened and he smoothed a hand down John’s back, at the frantic shaking of his head, “Come on then, onto your side. This bed is rather small for both of us.” They moved onto their sides, Sherlock tentatively nestling in behind John.

          Balancing, his left arm along his side, his right arm crammed between them, Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to get any rest. Thankfully there was at least a bit of sheet between them, as he suspected John wasn’t wearing underpants either. John shivered. “Are you cold?”

          “No.” He shivered again, forced himself still. After a taut moment he turned his head but didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, “Can you, can you put your arm around me?”

          “I can,” Sherlock said, proud of how steady he sounded. Nonchalant even. With a bit of maneuvering he got his right arm under John’s neck, his left coming around him. Gingerly he let his hand drape lightly over John’s waist, trying not to let his hand touch John; he was surprised—shocked, rather—when John put his left arm over Sherlock’s and pulled him closer, linking their fingers together.

          “Thank you,” John said softly.

          “Anything you need, John.” Anything, anytime, anywhere. _Always_ , he thought, burning eyes closing, body softening towards the other man’s, sleep creeping back. _Anything for you, John Watson_. He would keep him safe, keep him sane. John’s burdens were his now, and together they would carry them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got at least one more chapter coming, possibly it will be expanded beyond that, just not sure yet. Thanks for all the support thus far!


	6. Not A Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock settle into living together; it's all fine, except for when they sleep, when their feelings rise to the fore. John struggles with the manifestation of his PTSD, finding comfort in Sherlock's wholehearted support. A visit home introduces a huge snag, one Sherlock fears is the end of their friendship.

          Research suggested that it took between twenty-one and sixty-six days to form a habit. John Watson knew it took less than seven.

          Without them actually talking about it, he now sleeps in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock doesn’t always sleep—he has a positively stupid stance, which John intends on breaking, about not needing sleep—but he has crawled into bed with him each night without fail. John would be humiliated and embarrassed at his neediness if one night of him trying to be self-sufficient and sleeping in his own bed hadn’t proven that he needed Sherlock Holmes. Like he hadn’t known that for years; now Sherlock knew it too.

          So every night after their days of work or research or just plain lying around in their pyjamas and playing violin and sulking (Sherlock) or watching telly and cleaning his gun (John), they took their showers and put on their pyjamas and crawled into opposite sides of the bed. That was where their easy camaraderie of the daytime turned awkward. John tried to pretend he wasn’t sleeping with the other man because he was too mental to sleep alone, and Sherlock…well, John assumed Sherlock was regretting ever inviting John Watson back into his life.

          It helped though—God, did it ever. John just wished they could keep to their own sides of the bed. He wasn’t sure if it was him, his own longing made manifest, or just happenstance, but he kept waking up in Sherlock’s arms, or with his friend wrapped in his embrace. But for the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly survive without Sherlock’s friendship, John would have risked making his interest clear. Their time apart didn’t matter, not ultimately. They were still John and Sherlock, and John was still very much in love with Sherlock. But because Sherlock had made it clear that he was celibate and even clearer that he had no sexual interest in John Watson, they tiptoed around one another in bed while they were both awake.

          It was a ridiculous situation to be in, John reflected, lying in bed waiting for the other man to finish his bath—he still loved lazing in the tub as much as he had when they were young—staring at the texture on the ceiling. The lamp Sherlock had decreed a necessity to keep the metaphorical demons at bay was on the lowest setting and washed the room in soft light, leaving charcoal gray shadows in the corners. John folded his arms behind his head and tried not to think about Sherlock lying naked in the bath, his long limbs lapped by the soapy water. Thoughts like that did not help the ever-present awareness of a sexual tension apparently only he could feel.

          Given that they were working together by day and sleeping together by night, and the old walls were rather thin, John hadn’t been able to get off a quick wank since he moved in. He was starting to worry that something untoward would happen one morning. Especially when Sherlock got handsy in his sleep. More than once he had been required to summon fortitude and lift Sherlock’s hand off of his thigh or groin and roll away. But he always ended up in his arms. So far he had managed to wake before Sherlock each day and be out of bed and presenting a calm appearance by the time the other man stumbled from the bedroom.

          He needed an outlet. Either he had to get Sherlock out of the flat for a bit so he could release a little tension, or _he_ needed to get out of the flat so he could release tension in a less lonely way.

 

*******

 

          Sherlock had apparently appointed himself chief minder in charge of John Watson’s mental health. Every time John suggested Sherlock might pop in to Bart’s to pick up the liver his friend had set aside—John wasn’t even going to ask—or assuage Mycroft’s incessant phone calls and meet him at his club for tea, or get out of the house because he was going to drive the neighbors insane with his incessant playing of the violin…well, John failed. Either he ended up accompanying Sherlock to the morgue—the friend turned out to be a very nice girl named Molly Hooper who was clearly in love with Sherlock—or he was told exactly what Mycroft could do with his tea, or Sherlock stopped playing and sulked until John suggested they go for a meal to get out of the house.

          “This man, this man saved my life!” Angelo gushed, “Anything he wants—on the house! You too, Doctor Watson—Sherlock Holmes’s boyfriend gets carte blanche.”

          “I’m not his boyfriend,” John inserted, hoping Sherlock wasn’t about to explode and do that humiliating deducing thing and leave the burly man in tears.

          “Leave it,” Sherlock suggested, as Angelo continued to talk all the way to the best table, “He won’t listen anyway. Loves the sound of his own voice.”

          “Bottle of red for the table!” Angelo clicked his fingers at a hovering waiter; clapping his hands together, “You boys want a menu or shall I surprise you?”

          “Surprise us,” They said in unison, and shared a smile. Angelo beamed fondly at them like a doting Italian granny and hurried off to the kitchen.

          Automatically John had clocked the room, upon entering the restaurant, and now he sat with his back to the wall, leaving the seat by the window for Sherlock. This way he could see the other patrons, the door, the kitchen. He felt paranoid, but the big window was offering too little cover; they made excellent targets, especially with the light of the candle outlining Sherlock’s form against the glass.

          The waiter brought the wine bottle, pulled the cork and let it breathe, left, returned with breadsticks, left, returned and poured their wine. John breathed through his nose, concentrating on carefully crumbling a breadstick on the tablecloth as he ignored his wine beyond a polite initial sip. “I’m sure they’ll bring you a mortar and pestle,” Sherlock’s voice interrupted his obsessive thoughts, jerking John’s eyes to his face, “and then you can properly obliterate that.”

          John put his shaking hands under the table, “Sorry.”

          “Don’t apologize to me. As far as I’m concerned you can tear apart the entire place if it helps.”

          John looked at him, startled, “What?”

          “John, you’re on edge, practically hyperventilating, you’ve not stopped checking out the exits—there are three alternatives to the front door, by the by—and now you’re turning that innocent breadstick to dust.” Sherlock’s eyes were troubled. “What do you need?”

          “I…” John swallowed dryly, took a grudging sip of wine, “We’re practically asking for a sniper to take us out.” His face was hot and stiff, “Especially you, sitting next to that great bloody glass window.”

          Sherlock stood quietly, lowered the shades and moved to sit next to John, “Better?”

          He nodded jerkily, and started when Sherlock took his hand. “I have your back, John, just as I always did.” Smiling slightly, “Although now I am slightly better equipped than in our youth when my weapons were words and long legs with which to run away.”

          John gave a watery laugh, snuck him a look, “Eh, I do recall you dropping out of that tree onto Nelson Mulgrave’s back, screaming like a ninja the whole while. Nearly gave them all coronaries.”

          “Three of them were attempting to set upon you,” Sherlock frowned, “Unfair odds even though you were holding your own.” His hand was warm and dry, steady, and John clung to it gratefully, hating how weak he was, but grateful for Sherlock. “However, tonight I don’t believe I shall be called upon to drop, kamikaze-style, on any enemies. The worst that is liable to happen here is too many effusive innuendos from Angelo, or possibly indigestion.”

          “I’m being ridiculous. This is London, not Afghanistan.”

          “Do we need to leave?”

          “No.” John took a steadying breath, “I’m better.”

          “You have only to say the word,” Sherlock’s eyes were dazzling in their intensity, breathtaking in their affection, “We can always get our order to go.”

          “Ella wants me to work on public settings,” John sighed heavily, still clinging to Sherlock’s hand, “I can’t hide away.”

          “Would wine relax you?” Sherlock asked, nudging John’s barely touched glass toward him.

          John rubbed his nose, “Um, I’m not supposed to be drinking…too many meds for it to contraindicate.”   

          “Stupid,” he heard Sherlock hiss sharply, moving the wine to the other side of the table and pushing his own glass after it. “I should have realized, John.”

          “Hey, look, it’s fine, you can have yours,” John protested, “Just because I’m—please, don’t let it stop you from enjoying your wine.” He kept his tone firm, “Please, Sherlock. Living with me is no picnic…you should have your pleasures.”

          Sherlock laughed softly, shaking his head. “What?” John asked, baffled that anything he had said could be construed as funny.

          “I’m easily the most difficult man in London and you’re apologizing that you’re no picnic,” Sherlock explained, “Oh, John.”

          “Oh, Sherlock,” John replied. He grinned a bit. “Alright, so maybe we’re a matched pair of pains in the arse.”

          “The true basis of our friendship,” Sherlock teased. He was still holding John’s hand. It was immensely comforting, but far too tempting for John to let it stand. He extricated his hand, reached for his water glass, “Hope our dinner comes soon, I’m famished.”

          “You already ate twice today.”

          “Normal people eat three meals a day.”

          “You’re not normal John Watson. _Thank_ fully.”

          “So according to you I have to eat less?” John shook his head, “I think I need to eat more. Keep up my strength for the madness.”

          “As long as you can keep up with me,” Sherlock allowed, “I suppose you may eat three meals a day. But John, if you start eating four meals a day I will begin to suspect you’re a hobbit.”

          “Piss off, I’m not that short.”

          “Dinner!” Angelo sang, arriving with two waiters bearing loaded trays. “Just a little something!” He looked baffled when his special diners began laughing.

 

******

 

          Tesco’s, John thought, good a place as any for picking up a woman. He’d discovered that Sherlock had zero interest in things like replacing the milk or keeping loo roll in the house. He’d begun listing all the things they needed and watched his friend’s eyes glaze over; announcing he was going to the shops had garnered him an absent wave of the hand. Excellent. Now, he had time to do the shopping and find a woman to ask out. Not to brag, but it shouldn’t take him more than twenty minutes.

          It took twelve. Her name was Tessa. She was cute. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock, John would have been more interested. He was aware he was a total shit as he set about charming her into agreeing to a date. If her bright eyed look of excitement upon finding he was ex-military was anything to go by, he’d be warming her bedsheets tonight.

          Getting out of the flat for his date would be awkward. John addressed it head-on, coming from the shower in his toweling robe, drying his hair. “Going out tonight…there’s leftover Chinese in the fridge if you actually deign to eat.”

          “…what?”

          John kept his back to Sherlock until he had taken a deep breath. Time to subtly let his friend know he’d gotten the signal and was going to be pursuing someone else and that Sherlock wouldn’t have to worry about unwanted attention from John. “Yeah, met a gorgeous girl at the shops…we’re going out to dinner tonight, maybe a film…” He tipped a roguish smile at his friend, hoping his distinct lack of enthusiasm didn’t show, “Might be home late.”

          “Do you think that’s wise?” Sherlock said slowly.

          “It’s a date…are they supposed to be wise?” John asked flippantly as he walked into the bedroom. He pulled his lucky red pants on under his robe and then let it drop as he hunted through “his” drawers for a particular black button down he’d always found worked for him. He felt the exact moment Sherlock entered the room.

          “I mean, you’re still—not—not um…”

          “Sane?” John asked dryly. He slipped on a black sleeveless undershirt and stepped into a pair of dark wash jeans that were just a tad too tight in the rear.

          “No! I only meant…don’t you think you should concentrate on feeling relaxed in public places?” Sherlock looked genuinely concerned, and John felt bad for lying to him.

          “I’ll be alright. Just going to spend a few hours out—and then a few hours in, if I’m lucky.” John left his jeans hanging loosely from his hips as he sprayed on a bit of cologne before slipping into his shirt and buttoning it. “I’ll be quiet when I come in.”

          Sherlock watched silently as John tucked his shirttails in and then fastened his button fly. John sat down and pulled on black and blue argyle socks, his “nice” pair of leather trainers and was equally silent when John strapped on his military watch and brushed past him to return to the loo. He followed after John like an abandoned puppy, his open dressing gown trailing its ties on the floor, his face inscrutable under his disordered curls. John’s heart was beating too hard and he felt uneasy. Affecting a nonchalant attitude he ran a little product through his hair, fiddling with it while avoiding Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror.

          Finally he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, “You going to be alright while I’m gone?” Smiling as if it were a joke, “You don’t have a problem with me dating, do you? I mean, just because you’re not into that sort of thing…”

          “Problem?” Sherlock asked, drawing back as his brows lowered, “Why would I have a problem with you dating?” He turned his back and stalked into the sitting room, flouncing onto the sofa “Not a problem at all, John! You’re wasting energy on _sex_ , but that’s your business! I’ll just be here, utilizing my brain to its fullest extent.”

          “Great,” John said heavily, sliding his wallet and mobile into his pockets and picking up his coat, “Then you won’t miss me.” He opened the door, “See you in the morning.”

 

******

 

          Tessa was great; really. Cute. He’d said that already though. Sexy. Well, not really. Well not to him. He liked women almost as much as he liked blokes but she wasn’t exactly his normal type. But right now he needed someone to take him out of his head and help him release the screaming tension he was carrying around with him. He’d thought about just going to a gay club and hooking up with a stranger, but the thought of being in a loud, dark place full of strange men made John feel lightheaded with panic. He wasn’t ready for that. And honestly, the only man he wanted right now was Sherlock. The only person he wanted was Sherlock, but he couldn’t have him. Should have been used to that by now.

          “Do you have family in London?” Tessa asked, smiling brightly. She was really nice; John was determined to show her a good time. If he could just get out of his own head.

          “Uh, no…well, just my sister, but we don’t talk much. My mum and step-dad live in Sussex where I grew up.” He smiled, “You?”

          As she talked, John had to remind himself to pay attention. They were in a lovely, perfectly safe little restaurant where there was very little chance of armed warfare breaking out. Men with guns weren’t going to rush in—

          “Doctor John Watson?” A man lurked next to the table, looking sinister in a dark suit and tinted spectacles.

          “Uh…yeah?” John was bewildered.

          “I need you to come with me. Quietly please. If you don’t struggle there won't be any need for a scene?Now will there?”

          “What are you—”

          “What’s going on?” Tessa asked in a high voice. She was looking between them, edging her chair back.

          John laughed nervously, “I don’t know! Listen, whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong man…I-I’ve no idea why you’d be looking for me.”

          “You’re wanted in connection with a very serious matter regarding the unauthorized possession of a military weapon.”

          Shit!

          Tessa stood hastily, tipping her chair over. “Tessa,” John began, smiling tightly, “This is just a misunderstanding! There’s no problem here—”

          “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking horrified as she scuttled off. The waiter was hovering, looking torn between curiosity and annoyance. John looked at the suit, looked toward the door where two more men waited. He threw money on the table and stood, sighing.

 

******

 

          “You had your brother rush his thugs in there and make it look like I was about to be had up for possession of an illegal weapon?” John shouted, banging into the flat, coldly furious. He zeroed in on Sherlock, who was draped across his chair, looking bored. “What the fuck, Sherlock?”

          “It was clear to me you weren’t ready for all that exposure to an unsecured public setting,” Sherlock drawled, toying with an unlit cigarette. “And you didn’t seem that enthused about your date, either.” He smiled as if John’s cold rage were amusing, “I was saving you.”

          “Saving me? Saving me!” John yelled, kicking the chair. “You complete dickhead! I was doing fine! And of course I wanted to be out with Tessa…why else would I have asked her out?”

          “I don’t know,” Sherlock said coldly, “You tell me.”

          “I needed a shag,” John hissed, seeing red. “I’m not a monk—it’s been over a year and I—” He shoved his hand through his hair, “I’m not discussing this with you.” Turning away, “I’ll sleep upstairs tonight.”

          Ignoring the other man’s objection, John stormed upstairs and slammed into his old room, the one he’d only spent one and a half nights in since he moved in. Looking around he snorted forcefully. Christ, he was really screwed up if he was scared at the idea of sleeping by himself for one night. Pushing away from the door he stripped and fell onto the bed, shoving the pillows around until he was semi-comfortable. He was angry and hungry and shaking but he was by God going to try to sleep.

          Half an hour later he gave up and gave himself a vicious wank, coming hard and silently into his undershirt. It helped relieve a bit of the tension, but it was ages before he finally felt sleep stealing over him.

 

******

 

          Sherlock had to kick the door in. There was a struggle, a lot of shouting, compounded by the pounding on the flat door from a frantic Mrs. Hudson, and the banging on the shared wall from Mrs. Turner’s married ones. Sherlock finally wrapped both arms around John from behind, and whispered in his ear until he felt him go limp. The tears were silent and he didn’t realize John was crying as he guided him downstairs and into his bedroom.

          The muffled sob half buried in John’s pillow broke Sherlock’s heart, and he rolled over, lying close against John’s back and pulling him tightly to his chest. “John…John…it _will_ be alright. I swear it to you.”

          John shook his head, but didn’t answer. It was ages before his shaking ceased and Sherlock reluctantly moved away. John twitched but lay still. Sherlock rolled onto his back and closed his eyes against the lamplight. He wasn’t tired, but he also wasn’t abandoning John.

          “I’m sorry I’m keeping you hostage,” John whispered in a tear-rough voice, looking back over his shoulder when he felt Sherlock fidget, “You can read or listen to the radio or get your phone or whatever…” He sighed heavily, “I doubt I’ll sleep now.”

          “There’s no set time for you to sleep, John,” Sherlock pointed out, “We make our own schedule if you will recall.” He hesitated and then reached out and laced his fingers through John’s, “I’ll be right here until you fall asleep, and after I’ll be here to guard you.”

          “I’m supposed to protect you,” John protested, clinging tightly to Sherlock’s hand.

          “You kept me safe all throughout our childhood and adolescence, John,” Sherlock murmured, stroking the back of John’s hand with his thumb, “It’s about time I return the favour.”

          “You’re carrying me,” John whispered, rolling to face Sherlock. He studied their clasped hands, “I’m deadweight. I’ll just drag you down with me.”

          “I’ll keep our heads above water until you’re able to swim on your own, John,” Sherlock promised. He dared look into John’s eyes, hoping his feelings weren’t shining through, “I’m no prize, no hero…I’m just a man like you, trying to drive his demons away long enough to find some peace.”

          John reached out as if he would touch his face, but to Sherlock’s disappointment and relief he dropped it before he made contact. “What happened, Sherlock? Why—God, _why_ did you turn to drugs?”

          He’d feared this would come up at some point. “There was no one reason…boredom, loneliness, curiosity…I suppose, I suppose I was emotionally ripe to fall prey to the lure.” Sherlock closed his eyes, recalling with perfect clarity just how lost and alone he had been, how aching had been the hole left in his life by the loss of his best friend. “I was…there was a boy… a beautiful boy that I loved very much…he left me and I, I guess I just wasn’t strong enough to withstand the temptation.” He smiled wryly, “And I overestimated my own ability to resist addiction.”

          John grabbed his arm, his fervor translating through his grip; Sherlock opened his eyes to John’s intense gaze, “That’s bullshit. You’re strong enough now for anything, Sherlock…He’s gone now, the past, and you don’t have to give in to those old habits, alright? I don’t care who that little punk was, he isn’t worth your life.” He frowned fiercely, “I hope he’s not the reason you don’t want a relationship with someone, someone good for you.”

          Sherlock studied John’s face greedily, wishing that passion were for him, “I’ve never wanted anyone else…not really.” Victor had been a stop-gap, a mistake, a misstep in his youth. All he had ever wanted was John Watson.

          John dropped his hand from Sherlock’s arm, “Listen to me, trying to lecture you when I’m this massive fuck up.” He shook his head, intentionally lightened his tone, “I’m just fit for dispensing tea and plasters….and speaking of tea….”

          Sherlock put on a supercilious look, “John, do not tell me you are hungry again, for I shall not believe it.”

          “Oi! Someone interrupted my dinner!”

          “I suppose I owe you food then…tea and toast?” Sherlock rose, reaching for his dressing gown.

          “And eggs and bacon and mushrooms if we have any,” John supplied, hopping up and rummaging in his drawers for pyjamas, as he was still in his pants.

          “If we must,” Sherlock teased, leading the way.

 

******

 

          “You’re living with Sherlock?”

          John flushed, even though he’d never once admitted his feelings for his best mate to anyone, much less his mum. There was no reason for him to feel embarrassed. “Yeah, he’s got a great little two-bedroom flat here in Central London.”

          “Sounds pricy,” his mum fretted, “John, I hope you’re not living on his charity.”

          “Naw. I blackmailed Mycroft.”

          “That’s alright then. Oh, speaking of unpleasant things, I found the nastiest infestation of slugs in the garden shed, did I mention?”

          John laughed silently, “No, don’t think you did.”

          “They’re gone now, I had to get quite aggressive. Nasty things. Oh, I have a package for you; give me your new address so I can send it your way.” A tiny pause, “Since it will probably be ages until I get a visit from my son.” Micro pause, “My only son.”

          “Mum, what if I come visit?” A quick calculation, “In two weeks, say?”

          “Oh Johnny, would you? That’s nice, a son coming to see his mum for her fifty-second birthday.”

          _Shite_. “Of course I’m coming to see you, can’t miss your birthday.” _Deep breath, John_ , “Is Harry coming as well?”

          “No, she’s got some trade conference in New Zealand…or maybe it’s New Hampshire, I forget which. Harriet does tend to run on about her job, have you noticed?”

          Had he noticed? Surprised Harry hadn’t taken out an ad in the papers shouting about her successes. “Just a bit. Hey, listen, I’ve got to go, Sherlock is about to vibrate out of his skin waiting on me.”

          “Tell him to take good care of my boy, do you hear? And he’d better be coming to my birthday party or I’ll take the train to London and drag him out of his fancy flat by his ear.”

          “Yes mum, love you mum, bye mum!” John ended the call and shoved his mobile in his jacket pocket, running lightly downstairs to where Sherlock was impatiently waiting with a cab. “Sorry, sorry! I was talking to mum…I nearly forgot her birthday is coming up. I promised I’d go see her in two weeks.”

          Sherlock looked troubled, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

          “No. But mum doesn’t know how bad it is…I’ve sort of glossed over the worst of it.” John tried for levity, “At least I’m not using the cane any longer.”

          “Perhaps you can talk to your therapist about increasing your dosage…it might help you sleep at night.” Sherlock couldn’t have looked more worried if he’d held up a giant placard which read I’M WORRIED.

          “You’re coming with me, right?” John faltered. Somehow he’d assumed…

          “Oh. Do you wish me to accompany you?”

          “Well yeah…besides, mum threatened bodily harm if you miss it.”

          Sherlock smiled, “Your mother should run for Queen. The Empire would be in tip-top shape if she had the running of the country.”

          “That’s not how it works and you know it,” John laughed, “If it did, Mycroft would elbow out all contenders. He’s always dreamed of being a queen.”

          They were still snickering when the cab drew up to NSY.

 

******

 

          They hadn’t counted on separate bedrooms.

          “Johnny, you’re in your bedroom of course. We painted Gran’s old room and that’s Jasmine’s now. Sherlock, you’re in here… we turned the former master bedroom into a guest room, isn’t it lovely? You boys must come see the extension. Graham went nearly mental before it was all finished, but our suite looks lovely. It’s just what I’ve always wanted.”

          Mrs. Watson—now Mrs. Kennedy— was as warm and bossy as ever; Sherlock was glad she hadn’t changed. He was reserving his opinion on her husband, whom he was meeting for the first time. John said Graham was very nice but John was prepared to be agreeable for his mum’s sake. Sherlock would watch him with a sharp eye; nothing must be allowed to disturb the happiness of the Watsons.

          “It’s a lovely room,” he said politely, after a nudge from John, “Thank you.”

          “The old house has seen a lot of changes,” she said a bit wistfully, “Your dad and gran wouldn’t recognize the place these days, John.”

          “A lovely new house for a lovely new life,” John said, kissing her on the cheek with the ease Sherlock had always envied.

          They had arrived on the afternoon train, and by the time Graham arrived home from work they had settled in; dinner was a boisterous affair, what with the presence of John’s young step-niece. Sherlock escaped the house gratefully to smoke a cigarette. He glanced guiltily over his shoulder when a wedge of light washed over him from the back door. “Budge up,” John muttered, dropping onto the step with him. He took the fag out of Sherlock’s hand and dragged on it, passing it back. “Yeah, that still tastes of shit.”

          “Then why?”

          “Thought it might calm my nerves.” John propped his arms on his knees, looked up at the sky, “Stars are easier to see than in town.”

          “Mm,” Sherlock agreed. “I quite miss my old telescope.”

          “You should have seen them in the desert,” John said softly, leaning into his warmth. Sherlock took off his cashmere scarf and wrapped it around John’s neck, smiling at him when he lifted his chin obligingly. He tucked the ends in the neck of John’s jumper and patted it. “Thanks.” John looked away, resumed staring at the sky. “They were so close, so thick…the sky was just crowded with stars. And when the air was cold and still they seemed to throb.”

          “I’d like to have been there to see it,” Sherlock said quietly.

          “I thought about you a lot.”

          “Did you?”

          “Yeah…thought about what you’d have to say about the futility and stupidity of war. About how you’d love the star gazing but hate the sand that got into everything.” John huffed, “and I do mean everything. Sand got in places you wouldn’t imagine it could.”

          “Sounds unpleasant.”

          “Yeah. But there were some okay things too.” John blew on his cupped hands, tucked them under his arm pits, “I’m…I know I’ve always been rubbish at feelings…but Sherlock, I want you to know how much it means to me…that you’re here.” He looked at him, his eyes dark holes in the dark night, “I can’t imagine being here without you.”

          “Of course, I’m here, John. This is my home too in a way, isn’t it?” He looked away briefly, “You’re my family.”

          “…and your family is freezing,” John said after a pause that stretched Sherlock’s nerves to the limit. He sounded overly cheerful, his voice suddenly a bit too loud, “You done with that? Mum sent me out to tell you there’s a fresh apple cake and hot tea.”

          “Then we must hurry inside posthaste,” Sherlock said, consciously bringing a tone of levity to his voice, “If Mycroft knows there’s apple cake anywhere in the UK he’ll come on winged feet to snatch it up.”

          “Mum actually took a picture of it and made me send it to him. She’s a very mean woman.”

          “But she makes wonderful cakes.”

          “That she does. And pies.”

          “And one mustn’t forget her excellent roasts. I ate far too much.” Sherlock took John’s obliging hand and stood, stretching. “With my stomach so full I’m sure to sleep like a babe after a bottle.”

          “Fresh country air and all that,” John said lightly, although Sherlock felt his tension at the thought of bedtime. It would be easier if John would just admit he was having difficulty and be open about their arrangement. But it was his home, his family, and his problem. Sherlock wasn’t going to announce John’s current troubles, nor the solution they had found. He probably didn’t want anyone coming to the wrong conclusion about what was going on.

          They had a lovely time over their snack, and John was obviously loathe to let them get to bed. However, Graham, who had to work the next day, turned in shortly after his granddaughter was chivvied off to bed; John’s mother lasted a bit longer, but eventually she yawned hugely. “That’s me done, boys. I haven’t the stamina of you young ones. I’ll see you in the morning. Breakfast is at seven—don’t stay up too late.” She passed a loving hand over their heads and disappeared into the ground floor suite.

          “Guess we should go to bed as well,” John said after a moment. He stood, “You can have the shower first.” Without waiting for an answer he mounted the stairs. Sherlock followed slowly, waiting for John to give him some signal that he wanted to share a bed. None was forthcoming, so he showered and dressed in his pyjamas, settling uneasily onto his bed in the guest bedroom. Each faint creak of a floorboard, the low hum of pipes in the wall, the soft sound of John’s bedroom door closing…they all sent his nerves into a tighter ball. He stared at the mobile in his hand, waiting.

          Less than half an hour later the screen lit up. I CAN’T SLEEP. YOU STILL UP?

          Sherlock stood and exited his bedroom quietly, padding down the hall in his bare feet, toes curling against the cold draft that found him. He opened John’s door soundlessly, sighing in exasperation at the lack of a lamp. The room was inadequately lit from the faint moonlight coming through the parted drapes. “You’re supposed to have the lamp on, John.”

          “I’m a grown man, I should be able to sleep without night light,” John said defensively. There was a faint creak as he shifted in bed, “Um…do you mind?”

          “I thought I made it clear, I’m here as long as you need me.” Sherlock shuffled forward, bumped into the bedframe and lowered himself to the mattress. It wasn’t the old, swayback mattress that had rolled them into the middle of the bed in the old days, but it certainly seemed as narrow as of old. Sherlock was sharply reminded of the last time he had shared this same bed with John.

          Perhaps John was thinking of that day too? It could be why he had hesitated to just ask Sherlock to join him. The guest bed was larger. If it wouldn’t have made things all the more awkward, Sherlock would have suggested they move to his room. Instead he let himself settle into the bed, keeping to his side, his arm resting on his side in an attempt to give John some room.

          Room which, it seemed, he did not want. John wriggled around and then stilled. After several minutes he shifted again, restless. Sherlock raised his head, “Am I crowding you?”

          “No, no it’s fine.” John settled and they lay quietly. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. John shifted, sighed in exasperation. “John, what is it?”

          “I…can you…can you hold me?”

          From his miserable, embarrassed tone it was clear how much it cost him to ask. No greater an effort than it took for Sherlock to say calmly, “Of course,” and put his arm around his friend. At first they lay quite still, John now more relaxed, but clearly still edgy. As for Sherlock, he would have been quite happy if he weren’t so miserable. After a while they naturally, without either of them moving, settled more easily together. Sleepily Sherlock let his arm curl around John, tucking his hand between his pectorals and resting his head on the pillow behind John’s clean-smelling hair.

          “Mmm,” John sort of moaned, sounding half asleep and unbearably sexy. “Goodnight, love.”

          Sherlock lay awake for a very long time.

 

******

 

          Waking suddenly, heart thudding in his chest was nothing new to John—waking with a hard cock cradled by someone else’s hand was. More aroused than he was alarmed, he twisted to look over his shoulder. Sherlock, evidently just coming awake due to John’s thrashing, looked puzzled, swiftly followed by comprehension and horror. He went to remove his hand from John, who groaned, hips flexing as he followed that large hand. An instinctive “no” slipped out, horrifying him by the evident neediness, the betrayal of his own words outing him.

          Waiting for Sherlock’s disgust, John started to turn away, but was arrested by Sherlock’s, “John?” Their eyes met, a question trembling on Sherlock’s lips before John turned away, groping for control.  He actually whimpered— _whimpered_ —with loss when the other man took his hand away, but his need was immediately satiated when that clever hand slipped under the waistband of his loose pyjama bottoms and wrapped around him. John let his head fall back, groaning as Sherlock stroked him. After his weeks of pining it didn’t take long before he bit his tongue rather than tellingly call out the other man’s name, and spilled in his hand.

          Tears filled his eyes, words of love trembled hotly on his tongue. Seeking a moment to compose himself before he turned and with assumed nonchalance offered to return the favour, John kept his back to Sherlock. It was just biology; Sherlock had kindly helped him out and now John would do the same. It didn’t mean anything. Soldiers far from women did it all the time. Sherlock wouldn’t be reading anything into it the way John did—

          Sherlock sat up before John could turn around, flinging the covers away and standing up so rapidly that he stumbled. “Sherl—” John started to ask, but wasn’t given time before his bedroom door closed, leaving him alone.

          Staggering into his clothes, John ran lightly down the hallway, tapping on Sherlock’s door. He didn’t want to risk disturbing the household before dawn, but he couldn’t just ignore the giant error he had allowed to happen. He wanted to at least apologize. But Sherlock didn’t answer the door and John stood with his forehead against the wood, trying to find the words to apologize. Unable to think of anything that would fix this rift, John finally returned to his room and slumped on the bed. Maybe once everyone was up he could corner him outside long enough to apologize and beg forgiveness.

 

******

 

          “What do you mean, gone?” John asked tightly, trying to control his rising rage and fear. His mum certainly didn’t deserve his temper. He knew he had driven Sherlock from his bed, but how could he disappear like that without giving John the chance to apologize? They’d lost one another for six years the last time something like this happened. Panic gripped him at the thought of living without Sherlock again.

          “Like I said, I woke up to check on Dorrie and the pups and he was trying to sneak out the door. He apologized for running off, said an emergency had cropped up in town.” She looked troubled, “It’s just Sherlock, isn’t it? He’s never been very social, and what with his new detective work—” Mum bit her lip, “Is something wrong, Johnny? The two of you have been behaving strangely since you got here, and the way he looked this morning…is he alright?”

          “No, mum, not really.” John took a deep breath, “Neither am I—I-I’ve been having a hell of a time since I got back, and I don’t know what I would have done if Sherlock hadn’t dropped back into my life.” He squeezed her hand, “I don’t have time to tell you everything now, but I need to go after him. I’m sorry, I know I’m a shit son.”

          “You’re no such thing and don’t even think it! I was so happy to see you and Sherlock back together—whatever is going on, go fix it, love.” She smiled at him, “You two deserve some happiness.”

          “You know I’m in love with him, don’t you?”

          “Of course I do. Now go tell him that.”

          John swallowed hard, “No, that’s not—he wouldn’t—I just need to apologize, mum. I-I did something I shouldn’t have and he’s fragile—I have to go make sure he’s alright, and apologize.” He looked down, so ashamed he could hardly talk, “I’m going to need a place to live, can I—”

          “You don’t even need to ask—not that it will be necessary.” Her hands were warm and comforting as she cradled his face the same way she had when he was young, “The two of you were meant to be.”

          “I’ve really cocked it up this time,” John said, a heavy feeling in his chest spreading out, slowing him down. He didn’t share his mother’s optimism, not at all.

          “Well go un-cock it then! Do whatever you need to do, but don’t come back here unless you’ve had the courage to tell him you love him.” She was fierce in her vehemence, “He deserves to hear that, no matter what else you have to say.”

 

******

 

          Sherlock slept on the train. He laid his heavy head against the window, closed his eyes against the dizzying rush of the passing landscape and hoped he could escape his incessant thoughts. Mercifully he did. After a brief nap he woke up, shaking his head as he tried to order his scattered, disordered thoughts.

          It was incredibly foolish of him to have done what he did—but how could he possibly have stopped when John was pressed against him, moaning and needy and everything he wanted? He gave him his physical release, hoping against all reason that John would turn and take him in his arms and tell him he felt the same way—only instead John had huddled miserably with his back to him, obviously appalled at what he had let happen in his moment of need. He’d said himself it had been over a year; Sherlock had been there in a vulnerable moment, just someone to turn the valve and release the pressure. That was all it was.

          He should have been calm, assured John it was just one of those things that happened. Proximity lending itself to pure biology. It didn’t mean anything, Sherlock completely understood John’s need for sexual release, it didn’t change the dynamic between them. Already over and forgotten.

          Instead he had left the room, the house, the village, as if his coat tails were on fire. There was no passing it off as meaningless to him now.

          Weariness set in halfway back to Baker Street; Sherlock let himself in, unable to answer Mrs. Hudson when she came bustling out of her flat. “Sherlock? Sherlock, you’re home early—I thought you boys were to be gone the weekend?”

          “Not now, Mrs. Hudson,” he said irritably, mounting the stairs, “I’m not feeling well.” Indeed, aside from the metaphorical gaping wound in his chest, he felt as if he were coming down with the ‘flu; deeply exhausted, dispirited, aching all over his body.

          “Are you ill, dear? I can make you some tea. Where’s John? I know he’d take care of you.” She called up the stairs after him, but he didn’t answer, intent only on attaining the quiet and privacy of the flat. Discarding his clothes in a trail on the way to his bedroom, Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and burrowed into his bed. His bed. Just his now. No matter how much John needed not to be alone, it wouldn’t be Sherlock now who comforted him and kept him safe. John was an honourable man; given their old friendship he’d probably come in person to collect his things and say goodbye. His mother would see to him when he returned home, see him right.

          God, he wanted to slide into a heroin-assisted haze so badly his body ached with a physical need. Sherlock pulled the duvet over him and tried to unclench his muscles; he was weary, exhausted…an aching emptiness inside him, but at the same time the need to obliterate his current anguish was keening inside him. It was even worse than the first time he’d lost John. Now he knew what it was like to live with him, to share a bed, a life. He knew exactly what he had lost.

          Refusing to cry, Sherlock buried his face in John’s pillow and shook, emotion warring inside him. He did not cry. He would not. Emotions were at the control of the man, not the other way around.

          A harsh, dry sob erupted and he scrubbed his face fiercely into the pillow, trying to deny his weakness. He would get over this; he had to, there wasn’t any other choice. He’d made a promise to Mycroft not to return to drugs. He was an adult now, capable of controlling himself. Eventually the pain would dull and the freshness of the wound would scab over and he would go on.

          Mrs. Hudson came in at some point, tiptoeing in to put a cup of tea on the bedside table. Sherlock kept his face buried in the bedding, unwilling to show his face. “Have a little rest, dear,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, touching his back lightly, “You’ll feel better after some sleep. John will be upset when he comes home if he finds you’ve not been taking care of yourself.”

          Perhaps John would be concerned, but by the time he came back for his things, Sherlock would be very much in control of himself. Possibly he would take that case in Birmingham; it was only a four but it would get him out of town. No, that was the coward’s way out. Sherlock rolled so he could breathe without his face pressed in the pillow and stared at the changing light coming around his blinds. Eventually his eyelids grew heavy and Sherlock closed his eyes, welcoming sleep.

          The bed dipped, waking him, and he opened his eyes; the room was brighter, the day advanced. John was sitting on the side of the bed, his face haggard, his usually calm eyes troubled. “Hey,” he said softly.

          “H-hey,” Sherlock mumbled, clearing his throat. Oh God, here it came.

          “You ran off on me.” John glanced at the floor, took a deep breath, looked back, uneasiness evident. “I’m so sorry, mate. I—there’s no excuse for what I did—using you like that.” His eyes wavered, looking away once again, unable even to bring himself to look at Sherlock. Sherlock tried to breathe through the shaft of pain stabbing his heart. John looked back, “All those years ago, I screwed it up then and here I am doing it again. I-I can’t help myself when it comes to you.”

          “John, I—” Sherlock paused, unbearable hope rising inside him, “What do you mean, you screwed it up?”

          “Me and my inability to control myself around you,” John said in a strangled voice, unable to look at Sherlock anymore. “I’ve tried—God knows I spent most of our teenage years telling myself you were straight and to give up hoping.” He laughed, no humour in the sound, “Although turns out I was wrong. You’re gay, just not interested in me. And that’s fine, it’s fine. Not your fault I’m still stupidly in love with you.”

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, folks! I was running on and on and ON. So I broke it here, but I am at work on Chapter Seven already; I hope to have it up tomorrow if RL permits.


	7. Not A Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has just done the one thing he never thought he could do: tell Sherlock how he feels. Sherlock's reaction, is, to say the least, everything he could have hoped for and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just a whole lotta sex and pet names. I know you won't mind. The wall sex is for Kabes, because I know she loves it.  
> I know the chapter count keeps going up, but I am writing this as I go so I wasn't sure how long it was going to be; since chapter seven got to be so long I am concluding it in the next chapter.

          A vacuum of unspeakable proportions appeared to have descended on Baker Street; it sucked the air out of the room and left a dull ringing in his ears which drowned out whatever John was saying. That old, familiar, bittersweet, heart-clenching feeling was back; possibly he was going to have a heart attack.

          Or maybe, just maybe, he was finally about to get what he’d always wanted.

          Opening his mouth to try and say something, all that came out was an embarrassing sound of pain and longing. John’s face crumpled and he reached out, hesitating at the last moment. Sherlock lunged for him and John opened his arms and caught him against his chest, murmuring sounds Sherlock couldn’t quite interpret as he briefly surrendered to tears in John’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” was all he could hear John whispering as his senses returned. Guilt and regret were certainly not in order now.

          “John,” Sherlock finally said, scrambling up onto his knees, “please shut up.”

          Obligingly, his friend did. On his face was a look of miserable expectation. Sherlock knew that look; that was the very expression his heart would have worn for the last decade if it had had a face. He framed John’s face in his hands and smiled joyfully into his dear eyes, “I think we’ve been remarkably idiotic, John.” Grasping courage with both hands, Sherlock touched his shaking lips to John’s. The kiss was everything he’d ever dreamed of, minus the traces of tears leaving a salty taste on his lips, but even better than his most fervent imaginings, because John’s enchanting giggle of delight as they parted briefly to breathe lifted his heart into the stratosphere.

          Sweet and salty and perfect; firm lips and a trace of stubble, a dexterous tongue, wandering hands, soft breathy exhalations of his name said in a needy rumble whenever they parted slightly for air. Finally John held him off slightly, eyes vivid in their happiness, “Sherlock, not to be thick as a block, but are we…?”

          “Yes, John, I think we’re after exactly the same thing,” Sherlock assured him, touching the other man everywhere with greedy hands which were finally allowed to map the body of his best friend and dearest love. “For once we appear to be on the same page when it comes to this.” A deep breath, “Tell me you love me,” Sherlock said.

          John’s eyes were intense, his hands steady, no longer fearful and ashamed as he cupped Sherlock’s jaw, “I love you, Sherlock. I am in love with you, one hundred percent, all the way, stupendously in love with you.” The kiss Sherlock took sent them into a heady period of murmurs and sighs, hands kneading backs and arms, fingers tracing lovingly over faces as they expressed the love they had kept hidden for so long. It didn’t take long before desire was rising like a swollen creek, flooding the landscape of their minds.

          “God, I’ve wanted you for so long,” John breathed, sliding his hands inside Sherlock’s dressing gown in a most distracting manner. He licked and sucked Sherlock’s neck; Sherlock brushed his fingers over John’s nipples through his clothes, trying to squirm his hands under the layers, head falling back as John slid firm palms down his back and pulled him closer. “Oh love, God, I wanted you for so very long…dreamed about telling you how I felt.”

          “John,” Sherlock gasped as the other man’s hands slipped under the waistband of his pants, “I’ve been longing for you since we were fourteen, before I even knew for sure I was gay.” He was experiencing actual dizziness at the elevated levels of happiness he was experiencing, “I never thought I would be able to tell you…”

          “Tell me now,” John demanded, looking greedy and happy and shy, “Say it out loud.”

          “I love you. John Watson, I love you.” How glorious to say the words at last! He refused to cry, although if ever there were a time of tears of relief and happiness, this was the moment. But tears were a thing of the past; now they had this glorious moment of joy and all future such moments. “You have my heart.”

          “Aw, love. My sweet love,” John was so affectionate! He was hugging and nuzzling and pressing kisses on Sherlock, who could feel himself blushing at the attention. “God, you’re gorgeous! Look at how hungry my love is for me to tell him how loved he is, how beautiful and special. Mmm, I understand that…and I love telling you, I’ll never get tired of finding ways to express it.”

          “John…” Sherlock had had sex before. He’d quite buried himself in sex and drug use when he’d been involved with Victor. He knew how to get off, how to make another man fall apart in his arms; he didn’t know how to express everything he felt for John, he wasn’t sure he knew how to make love.

          “What is it, pet?” John asked tenderly, nuzzling his chest as he pushed him down on the bed, “Am I going too fast for you? I can stop,” but he was slithering around Sherlock, wrapping him in a tight embrace. It felt wonderful, the most wonderful thing he had ever felt aside from hearing John’s stumbling confession of love.

          “Please don’t stop…I’ve dreamed about this for so long,” Sherlock assured him, returning his embrace with equal fervor. He gripped John’s back, holding him tight. “Tell me?”

          John held him tight, lips almost touching, “I love you, Sherlock.” A soft kiss and he pulled back, looking him in the eyes, “I have loved you for so long, and it is such a relief to be able to say it out loud to you.”

          Sherlock held him with arms that shook. Lowering his head to kiss John he confessed, “I’m not as comfortable expressing it; all the little endearments you take for granted mean so much to me, but John…you are my love. My only love.”

          “What about Victor?” John asked jealously, ceasing nibbling on Sherlock’s ear to scowl fiercely.

          “He was a bandage on a wound. I lost you and used him to try and forget the unforgettable.” Sherlock had his hands all the way in John’s briefs now, cupping his buttocks; his palms were filled with what felt like the very Grecian ideal of masculine beauty. Recalling John in his red pants, and then in his tight denims made him sweaty. He’d very much like to see John out of his pants as well. “John… John, you’re wearing too many clothes.”

          “We’re moving too fast,” John said as he jerked his jumper off over his head, disordering his hair. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt with clumsy fingers, “This is—damn this shirt!—a bad idea, we should—” He gaped as Sherlock grabbed the placket of his shirt and jerked it apart, scattering buttons, “Bloody hell, Sherlock!” He started laughing, “No quarter then?”

          “Twelve years of wanting you, John. _Twelve years_.”

          “Sod restraint,” John growled, and lay down to peel off his trousers and pants, kicking his shoes away and grappling with his socks. He still had one on when Sherlock –having tossed his dressing gown aside—removed his pants and covered John’s body with his own. He really, really wanted a good look at every inch of John, but later would do. For now he needed—

          “Ah!” Sherlock hissed, naked skin sliding against naked skin. His arms shook as he lowered himself full length upon John, who reached for him greedily. Their mouths clashed hungrily and Sherlock moaned as John’s tongue stroked his. “John…oh God, John…”

          “Yes, my love,” John soothed, hands firm on his arse as he lined them up. Sherlock rocked against him, eyelids fluttering as his groin rubbed against John’s. The slick feel of John’s hot, hard erection was the best thing he had ever experienced, “God, you’re gorgeous, look at you. Let me have a kiss.”

          Sherlock happily complied, kissing John was a drug he could become very, very addicted to and he would happily spend the rest of his life seeking that particular high. He groaned deeply when John’s hands grasped his arse greedily and ground them together, establishing a rhythm.  His brain was shorting out; from the pleasure, from the happiness, from the overwhelming sea of emotions he was presently floating in. Orgasm was right on the horizon, no matter how hard he tried to stave it off.

          “Oh God, I’m not going to last…you feel so incredible…” John groaned, hips rising urgently under the press of Sherlock’s body, “Oh love, oh God, yes… _Sherlock_ …”

          John convulsed under him, moaning breathily through his climax, and Sherlock stopped fighting it, eyes on John’s ecstatic face as he came hard and swift, unable even to gasp out John’s name. Quivering, Sherlock collapsed on John, who bore his weight easily, arms coming up to hold him fast. Face pressed in John’s neck, Sherlock shivered at the light skim of John’s fingertips down his back, the sweetly soft kisses pressed to his temple. Turning his head he kissed John’s lips, drinking in his delighted little mmms of pleasure. “Oh, _John_ …”

          “I know,” the other man answered, tightening his arms around him, “Believe me, _I know_.”

          “Am I crushing you?” Sherlock finally asked, unwilling to move but aware he might be too heavy. He had lost track of just how long he’d been reclining on top of John.

          “Mmm, no…you stay right where you are.” John gave him another kiss, “I could stay like this forever.”

          “We are quite revoltingly sticky,” Sherlock grimaced, his shifting having revealed that their combined ejaculate had created a mess. He tried to roll away but John followed him, pinning him down and wiggling as he smeared their cum on Sherlock, who yelled and squealed and tried to move away. “You’re a disgusting animal, John Watson!”

          “You love it,” John grinned, moving down a bit and flicking his tongue over Sherlock’s nipples. “I can feel you getting hard again, you eager thing. Let’s have a bit of a wash and then I’m going to explore every inch of you and take that fantastic cock in my mouth and suck you off like you’ve never even dreamed.”

          “I’ve had a lot of dreams,” Sherlock assured him, following a hasty clean up. He smiled flirtatiously at John, feeling shy and bold and deliciously sexy. John, who seemed to agree, if his hungry eyes were anything to go by, was standing at the end of the bed, a shaft of sunlight highlighting each tiny hair on his beautiful body. In turn he was drinking in the sight of his beautiful John standing with such casual assurance, spent cock already half at attention. There was a bit of civilian softening visible on what was clearly a very defined, very fit physique; his left shoulder—which he had seen before but never so clearly—bore a pinkish scar like a spider web radiating out from the sight of his gunshot wound, his arms and legs bore evidence of other smaller nicks earned over time. There was a surgical scar gone white from age, on his left hip.

          Sherlock catalogued each and every mark, eyes hungrily eating up his John. He was aware of John doing the same thing, and hoped that his lanky frame didn’t displease; hopefully his track marks and the scar on his ribs from a knife wound he’d received when junkies had rolled him at a flophouse, the old chemical burns on his hands, didn’t put John off. “Jesus, love, look at how perfect you are,” John sighed, giving his dick a squeeze, “I want to eat you right up.”

          “You’re the perfect one,” Sherlock objected.

          “I’m quite sure that’s you. Look at all that creamy skin…and your gorgeous long legs,” John rubbed his nipples as he cupped himself, staring hungrily at Sherlock, who felt his face heat from the attention, “God, and your chest, Sherlock!” He growled prettily, stalking Sherlock around the bed.

          “I’m nothing compared to you,” he denied, moving into John’s arms and kissing him because he just couldn’t help himself. “Your body is a delight, John. I find myself wanting to rub against you like a cat in heat.”

          John’s groan was heartfelt, “Oh Jesus, what an image. Please feel free anytime.” Then he seemed to think better of his choice of words, eyes sparkling, “Strike that! Only when we’re alone, please.”

          “John I’m crushed,” Sherlock said, feigning hurt, “It’s as if you don’t trust me to behave.”

          “I don’t. But that’s alright, you can misbehave as much as you like when we’re alone.” John went up slightly onto his toes, plunging his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and tipping his face down so he could kiss him thoroughly, “Now, speaking of misbehaving…onto the bed with you, mister.” He waggled his brows, “I believe I’ve got a promise to fulfill.”

          Stretching out, Sherlock shivered happily at the rapacious look in his John’s eyes. John had promised every inch of him…and John always kept his promises.

          He was not to be disappointed; starting with a ticklish suck of his toes, John began to lavish him with attention, praising his finds as Sherlock’s cheeks flamed hot pink. “Mmm, and look at these knees…even your knees are sexy, you ridiculous man!”

          “John,” he protested, laughing. John gave him a cheeky smile and massaged his thighs, fingers dancing closer to Sherlock’s extremely eager erection. However, rather than attending to it, he gave Sherlock a hot-eyed look of seduction and continued tormenting him. His hands were held tenderly, palms kissed, tongue flickering over the rapid beat of his pulse; John hummed happily as he kissed his way up Sherlock’s arms, slowing down to press soft lips to the fading track marks, his eyes dark and sorrowful.

          Sherlock swallowed painfully, vowing never to give John cause to worry over his addiction again. There was not a doubt in his mind that John Watson would follow him into hell itself to keep him safe. “That was the last time, John. Never again, I swear.”

          “Good,” John said in a tight voice, “Because I’ll murder you if you put yourself in that kind of danger again.”

          He smiled sweetly and ran heavy hands up Sherlock’s sides as he began to pay spectacular attention to his nipples. Sherlock’s legs moved restlessly; his need for John was so strong he wanted to shout out loud. Digging his fingers into John’s back, he gave a heartfelt groan as John’s hard palms skimmed his hips, “Yessss…”

          “Someone’s eager,” John teased, lightly biting the ticklish skin low on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock felt another rush of blood to his already excruciatingly hard cock and moaned, tossing his head in agitation, “Please, sweetheart…”

          John surged up and kissed him deeply, pulling back to peer into his eyes, “I love hearing you call me sweetheart, you feel free to do that as often as you wish, alright?” Sherlock nodded and then sighed as John licked a tickly trail down his body. “You want my mouth on you?” John purred, hot breath ghosting over his flesh. Sherlock leapt in response, sighing in anticipation as John trailed a fingertip up his inner thigh, moaning as that fingertip lightly skimmed up the underside of his scrotum. “John, _please_ …”

          “I want you to get everything you want,” John promised, lowering his head and letting his tongue glide over the head of Sherlock’s engorged cock. Sherlock gasped, hips rising as he sought more. “Mmmm….” John moaned, letting Sherlock thrust just the head of his dick into the wet heat of his mouth. He pulled off with a wet pop, leaving Sherlock’s hips stuttering in the air, seeking more. “I’m going to swallow you whole, love, and I want you to come for me. Come in my mouth, alright? I want to taste you.”

          “God! John!” Sherlock expostulated, clenching his fingers in the sheets to keep from grabbing John by the ears and plundering his mouth in his eagerness. Tears of mingled happiness and ecstasy trickled out of his eyes to run down his temples, “Please don’t…please don’t judge me by how short a time I will last.”

          “How long’s it been for you, Sherlock?” John asked, kissing his thigh.

          “T-three years… _John_ …oh God, I’m so, so turned on right now…I’m on the edge of coming this very minute.”

          “Then come for me, sweetheart,” John purred, taking him in his mouth and sinking all the way down until Sherlock’s corona met the back of his throat. Sherlock was simultaneously turned on by the skill John was displaying and horribly jealous of how he had come to be so skilled. Pushing aside useless thoughts of the past, Sherlock gripped John’s hair to an approving growl and concentrated on the best blow job he’d ever experienced. It did indeed not last long; John swallowed him all the way to the root again, a firm hand massaging his balls, and then he hummed, throat vibrating against Sherlock’s sensitive flesh, and Sherlock yipped embarrassingly and flooded John’s throat as he came in a long-rushing wave.

          John swallowed expertly and licked and sucked softly, humming happily as he nuzzled Sherlock clean. At last he curled up next to Sherlock, put his head over Sherlock’s rapidly pounding heart and snuggled in his slack embrace. At long last Sherlock summoned the strength to reach for him, “Let me—”

          “Will you touch me?” John rolled his hips against Sherlock’s flank, face taut and needy, “I want your hands on me as we kiss.”

          “That shall hardly be a hardship,” Sherlock growled, kissing John’s swollen lips and groaning at the taste of his release on John’s tongue. He ran his hand down John’s beautiful body, brushing his fingers over John’s nipples, tantalizing with light touches between his legs, gentle passes over his eagerly jerking cock. “Ah yes, I do believe I’ve found the joystick,” he murmured, kissing John sloppily with lots of tongue and pressing him into the bed rather aggressively. John loved it, if his carrying on was any indication.

          “Sherlock…God…yes, love, like that,” John moaned throatily when Sherlock took him in hand. His dark blue eyes were dazzling in their hunger; John plunged his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, scraping his nails over his scalp and eliciting shivers of delight. He loved having his hair played with. No one had done it since he was small, and Mycroft used to soothe him to sleep playing with his curls. This was an altogether more adult and stimulating feeling. If it weren’t for John’s hot, hard length in his hand he could have easily fallen into a blissful headspace, letting John stroke and caress him into an insensate state.

          “God, what your touch does to me…ah, pet, yes…” John however, presented a very compelling case for paying attention to the matter at hand.

          Sherlock kissed John, pressing him into the bed as he used every skill he knew how to amp up his arousal. Lowering his head he sucked John’s right nipple sharply into his mouth, smiling at the loud cry and the lusty plunge of hips he received in reply. John was slippery with pre-cum, throbbing hotly in Sherlock’s hand as he stroked and tugged and caressed what was surely the finest, most gloriously generous cock ever to stride the earth. Kissing his way up John’s body he grazed his teeth over John’s clavicle, licked the defined trapezius, tongue dancing over the scar.

          “Oh love…” John gasped when Sherlock sucked hard on his neck, back arching, “I’m so close…!”

          Twisting his wrist, Sherlock latched onto John’s neck like a vampire, sucking hard and groaning in triumph when John shouted hoarsely and came in long, luxurious spurts. He continued to stroke him lightly until John wordlessly protested, shaking with sensitivity. Wiping his hand on the sheet, Sherlock wrapped John tightly in his arms and pressed his cheek to John’s. He had found him at last, his John, found the courage to claim him…and now he wasn’t letting go, not for anything in the world.

 

******

 

          “Told you they was _partners_ ,” Donovan sing-songed under her breath, smiling snidely at a nearby PC as she stood resentfully watching Sherlock examine the crime scene and John study the dead body. Her eyes were on John’s neck, where a very evident love bite had blossomed. Given the beard burn on Sherlock’s face and his swollen lips it was evident even to someone as dull as Donovan that the two men had been engaging in sex.

          John remarked cheerfully, “I prefer the term lovers, actually.” He looked up, smiling his sweet, deadly smile, “It’s more accurate, right, love?”

          “As ever, John, you are correct. Pithy in your accuracy, which I appreciate.” Sherlock smiled without looking up from his examination, eyes narrowing as he took one last sweep of the room, before standing. “Come, John! I want to get these samples to the lab right away. Le Boeuf! Text me the results of your canvassing of the neighborhood—remember, we’re looking for a man with a distinct limp and hair dyed chestnut.” Ignoring Donovan’s derisive snort he swept out of the room, John obligingly trailing after him.

          “You announced it to all and sundry,” Sherlock said in the cab. “You do realize that Donovan is most likely even now preparing to out us to the public? I have a minor following, after all.”

          John brandished his mobile, “I’ve already beat her to it. I set up a Facebook account whilst you were interrogating the landlord and I’ve listed myself as interested in men.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock, “Do you mind if I say I’m in a relationship with you?” He linked their fingers, “Since I’m really only interested in one man. One particularly brilliant, sexy man.”

          Sherlock’s answer was in the form of a blistering kiss—he’d quite forgotten the cab driver even existed—and he regarded John with hot eyes, “Do you really need to ask, beloved?”

          John smiled flirtatiously, “You are a private man, Sherlock, but I suspected you might want to flaunt it a bit.”

          “I very much wish to discuss flaunting when we get home,” Sherlock promised, “You will forgive me if I concentrate on the case?” Without waiting for an answer, confident John wouldn’t mind, he closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace. Emerging with the necessary information, his mind feeling more orderly, Sherlock blinked at the price on the meter, looked about. The driver was napping, and outside the cab stood John, leaning on the door and sipping a paper cup of tea. Sherlock cleared his throat and the driver sat up, “Eh?”

          “Your fare,” he said politely, “Thank you for waiting.”

          John was smiling when he emerged, nose a bit red from standing in the wind. “You surfaced! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost in there.”

          “My apologies, John, I did not mean to abandon you.”

          “No worries, love. I figured you had a knotty problem to solve and needed some time.” John offered him a sip of tea, which he waved away, “Ready to go in?”

          “Yes, quite,” Sherlock said happily, watching John’s lovely form as he trotted up the stairs ahead of him. Could life be any better? Exciting work, interesting experiments and John at his side and in his bed.

 

******

 

          “Are you quite sure about this?” Sherlock yelled, looking uneasily about the room; electronic music throbbed, the lights pulsed and the many, many bodies of some of the hippest and hottest of the gay men in London gyrated in the club. “What about your fear of crowds?”

          “Just testing,” John assured him in a loud voice, “I’ve got you to keep me steady. I need to get comfortable in public settings, and in crowded places; I mean, what if one of our cases leads us to a nightclub? I can’t let you run in after the baddies alone…” he smiled happily, “Besides, I want to dance with my boyfriend!” He was relieved when Sherlock smiled and gestured him to lead the way. Sherlock had spent years in dance classes when they were younger; formal, mostly, but John knew of his secret passion for dancing. He was very much looking forward to dancing close to his lover’s amazing body and letting his hands roam. They had handily solved the case in less than six hours and it was only their second day as a couple; it was time to dance until they were sweaty and exhilarated and then go home and make love until they collapsed.

          They worked their way a bit into the crowd on the dance floor, which wasn’t _too_ bad for a Friday night; exactly what John had been hoping when they showed up a bit early. He kept his eyes on Sherlock and concentrated on moving his body, John wasn’t as skilled as Sherlock but he knew how to move, how to seduce with his hips, his eyes. Sure enough, Sherlock looked captivated. John turned, back to Sherlock, lightly rubbing his bum against his boyfriend’s crotch. It helped that he was moving, that the atmosphere was one of enjoyment, pleasure and frivolity.

          Head rotating lightly on his neck, John glanced around, half assuring himself that all was well and half scoping out the scene. He hadn’t been to a gay club since his last R&R and that hadn’t been in London. Even at twenty-six he had feared he might be a bit older than the crowd, but there was a good mix; he spotted several boisterous groups of very young men shouting and laughing, looking impossibly young and innocent. But there were fellows in their late twenties and thirties as well; inveterate club goers mixing with business types looking to have a good time. There were even some older men…

          “Bloody hell!” John whirled around and faced Sherlock, “You didn’t tell me Lestrade was gay!”

          “Who?” Sherlock, shouted over the music, sounding puzzled.

          “Greg Lestrade—the DI!”

          “He’s here?” Sherlock peered about, not spotting the older man until he followed the line of John’s pointing finger. He smirked triumphantly, “I _knew_ Leclerc was bisexual! I imagined he would be too closeted at his age to even admit it to himself.”

          “Rude,” John said, “And he’s not that old, just a few years older than Mycroft.” He looked at the older man, whose prematurely silver hair glowed magically under the colored lights, wearing a rather snug pair of dark jeans and a white button down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. John thought he spotted a tattoo on one arm; there was a watch with a wide band on one wrist, a few day-Glo club wristbands on the other. The top several buttons of his shirt were undone. If John had been single and heart-free, he would have inveigled a meeting, a drink, possibly a shag because damn, the man was fit. “He’s really fit.”

          “He’s old and boring and I forbid you to look at him lustfully,” Sherlock snarled, stepping in John’s line of vision. He was pouting massively, which shouldn’t have been adorable, but really was.

          “Oh I don’t know,” John teased, “There’s something about an older man—they really know how to make it last—plus they have more money for drink.”

          Sherlock’s face was thunderous, but under it John saw a hint of vulnerability. He stopped teasing, stepping close to hug Sherlock and nuzzle his jaw, “I’m only teasing, love. You’re my man, right? And I’m yours?”

          Relaxing slightly, Sherlock unbent enough to kiss John. “I can assure you I can achieve an erection a full forty percent more often than a man his age.”

          “And a very impressive erection it is, too,” John praised, taking the opportunity to palm Sherlock through his trousers. “Let’s forget about Greg and dance…and then I want you to take me home and open me up and drive me crazy with that lovely, fat cock of yours, okay?”

          Sherlock shook all over, his face momentarily glazed over with lust, before he collected himself and promised retribution.

          “Later,” John suggested cheekily, “for now I want my dance.”

 

******

 

          “I wager you’re not thinking of Lefévre now, are you?” Sherlock purred, slowly parting John’s cheeks with his thumbs. He had been massaging his bum for ages whilst kissing him, large hands returning again and again to tease John.

          “Well now that you mention him…” John lifted his head from the pillow, grinned down his naked body at Sherlock, “No. Jesus, love, _touch me_ , please.”

          “I am touching you, John,” Sherlock returned smugly.

          “You know what I mean! Please, please give me just one finger?”

          “Well, since you asked so nicely…” Sherlock took pity on him at last and lightly circled his hole with one finger, massaging and pressing until John’s hips were moving needily and he was stroking himself with slow, lush motions of his hand. “Don’t come just yet, John, I have plans for you.”

          “Nnnnhnn,” John groaned, followed by a gasp as Sherlock slowly entered him with one finger. “Yessss…”

          Sherlock swallowed hard, hoping his own control was up to the challenge; it was far, far too delicious to feel the greedy grip of John’s arse around his finger. Concentrating on kissing John’s thighs, Sherlock worked him slowly open, sucking softly on the salty glans of John’s straining dick as he removed his finger and slid right back inside him with two. When he scissored his fingers John’s hips left the bed and he actually groaned so loud and deep that Sherlock felt his own neglected cock leak a generous amount of pre-cum.

          “John, I am trying mightily to hang onto my control. You will oblige me by ceasing that entirely arousing and distracting noise.”

          John laughed breathlessly and took the hand that was stroking his dick, curling so he could suck on Sherlock’s fingers, hot eyes pinning him in place. “Sorry, pet, I’m hungry for you.” He lay back, toying with his nipples as he kept staring at Sherlock. “I’ll let you concentrate.”

          Focusing on his end goal, Sherlock humped the mattress to relieve some of his tension and thrust his fingers lightly inside John, curling and pressing and occasionally dipping his head to suck on his cock. By the time he had introduced a third finger, John was incoherent with need and Sherlock was gritting his teeth to keep from hold of his last thin, raveled thread of composure. “John, I want to be inside you now…are you sure you’re comfortable with no condom?”

          John nodded, reaching for him, and Sherlock had to remind himself not to scramble inelegantly up the bed and climb on John like a horny Neanderthal. Shaking hands fumbled with the lube, he managed to slick himself liberally, shuddering as he touched his primed cock. John put his ankles on Sherlock’s shoulders, arching his back and lifting his hips well clear of the bed in a sexy-as-hell display of his flexibility and strength as Sherlock shoved pillows under John’s bum. “Fuck, love, I need you inside me,” John was wilder than Sherlock had ever seen him, and it was incredibly arousing.

          “Bear with me just a moment, sweetheart,” Sherlock soothed, lining himself up with John’s swollen pink hole. “John, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen…” He held his breath as he slowly breeched him, sinking slowly into John’s body. Every nerve ending was alight, and he was very much afraid he would come too soon. Holding tightly the base of his penis, Sherlock pressed all the way inside John, both men sighing as he did.

          John tightened his passage around Sherlock and, keeping his ankles hooked over his shoulders, lifted his body, the move tightening his arse even more around Sherlock, who cried out. Desperate not to come right away, he waited until John had relaxed before he pulled back, almost all the way out, and then rocked back inside. John moaned and pinched one nipple while he tugged at his cock. “Sherlock…”

          “Yesssss…” Sherlock pulled back, thrust, pulled back and then thrust harder, bottoming out. John was squirming and sighing, groaning when he thrust and moaning when he withdrew. Sherlock had never heard anything sexier. “God, John, I want to keep making love to you all night, but—ah, Christ, you devil!—I sincerely regret to say that I’m not going to last that long.”

          John raised his hips again, fucking himself on Sherlock, “I want you to fuck me hard and fast and deep, alright love? Just pound inside me, all that lust and need…I’m nice and loose and relaxed and you’ll send me off like a grenade launcher.” He bit his lip, “I want to feel you deep inside me all day tomorrow.”

          Shuddering, Sherlock attempted to hold him still, mind ticking over. Then, “Alright John,” He pulled out, “I need you on your feet for just a moment. No complaints, now, I promise it will be worth it.”

          John agreed entirely with Sherlock’s judgement once he had him in his arms, up against the wall. Sherlock kept his stance steady as they adjusted; John’s back was pressed to the wall, his legs up around either side of Sherlock’s torso; Sherlock had hooked his arms under John’s knees and around his thighs. Sinking slowly inside him Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s, their foreheads pressed together as he thrust. “God, yes,” John breathed, kissing him, fingers buried in his hair doing that delicious carding thing once more, “I can feel every inch of you, love.”

          Sherlock pulled out and then surged back in John’s arse, grunting as he sped up. John wasn’t able to move much, aside from internal flexing, but in this position Sherlock could keep him wide open and he had gravity on his side as well as the proper leverage to shag John into the wall. Which he proceeded to do, and shortly the sitting room rang with filthy grunts, lusty sighs and the occasional prolonged moan. John growled at him to fuck him harder and he obliged, sweating copiously as he pounded into John’s body, spurred on by John’s convulsive, “…fuck yes…Sherlock...” over and over in his ear.

          Kissing the man he loved, Sherlock held on as long as he could, until he felt his orgasm approaching, whereupon he readjusted so he could stroke John to completion. Savouring the sound of his name drawn out on John’s lips, Sherlock broke at the feel of his lover clenching and fluttering around him as he came; letting go, he stroked deep, holding John to the wall with his hips as he came in heavy waves of pleasure and hot spurts of cum, grunting wordlessly at the force of his climax. He was shaking, sweaty, winded, his hand covered in cum and he couldn’t stop smiling.

          “Where are we going?” John asked dreamily, kissing his sweaty neck as Sherlock carried him down the short hallway to their bedroom.

          “To bed, John. Where I shall clean you up and tuck you in and then join you for a well-deserved night of sleep.” Ignoring the slight quiver in his thighs, Sherlock lowered John to the bed and John obligingly unhooked his legs from around his waist and slithered onto the bed in a heap. Sherlock laughed and leaned down to bestow the kiss John demanded. Returning with warm, wet flannels, he cleaned them both and then slipped naked into bed, pulling a happy, quiescent John into his arms.

          “I love you,” John said softly, burrowing tighter into his embrace, nuzzling his face to Sherlock’s chest, and appearing to settle in to listen to the beat of his heart thudding in his chest. “You make me so incredibly happy, love.”

          “I love you as well, John,” Sherlock said in return, smoothing John’s sweaty hair and tilting his head so he could kiss his forehead. He settled in, arms tight around John, “The feeling of happiness you give me is indescribable.”

          “Can we just stay like this forever?”

          “What about trips to the loo?” Sherlock teased gently, “And you’d be wailing like an infant for a cup of tea in less than nine hours.”

          “Mmm, tea.” John sighed, “Will you bring me tea in bed in the morning, love?”

          “You’re very demanding, John,” Sherlock smiled at the ceiling. He might not be able to sleep for the effervescent joy swelling inside him.

          “Pleeeeeease?” John pretended to whine, wiggling about to present an unbearably adorable pouty face to his delighted boyfriend, “I won’t be able to walk because _someone_ split me like a ripe peach for his own nefarious sexual purposes.”

          Sherlock giggled, “Your ire would be more believable if you weren’t frotting my leg, sweetheart.”

          “Damn,” John laughed, stretching up to kiss him, “You’re too observant.” A kiss to his jaw, “And clever,” a sweet kiss to the tickly spot behind his ear, “Mm, and gorgeous to boot.”

          “John, are you, by any chance, attempting to seduce me into fetching you tea in the morning?”

          “Yes. Is it working?”

          “Your hand on my dick is swaying me in line with your thinking on the matter.”

          “Yay!” John cheered softly, kissing him again.

          “Don’t expect this to become a habit,” Sherlock warned.

          “No, ‘course not.” John snuggled up to him again and yawned, “Goodnight, pet.”

          “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

          “And I need toast, as well.”

          “You’re pushing it, John.”

 

******

 

          Tea. Tea. Somewhere in the flat must be tea. John drank it daily, there must be some in the flat. Sherlock ran agitated hands through his hair, growling softly. He wanted to wake John with a tray of perfectly prepared tea and stacks of toast, and he was deeply annoyed that he couldn’t locate everything he needed.

          Ah! Mrs. Hudson!

          Dashing downstairs, he hastily tied his dressing gown around him and tapped on the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. She answered shortly, and giggled as soon as she caught sight of him. He went red, reading in her face that she was aware of the nature of what had transpired in the flat the night before. “Um, tea?”

          “Oh, I’ve had mine dear, thanks.”

          “No, I need tea. For John.” Sherlock smiled as appealingly as he knew how, which did not appear to be very appealing judging by his landlady’s face, “He needs tea.”

          “I’d say he needs a sight more than tea.”

          “What?”

          “Oh, nothing dear. Tea, yes, I can make a cuppa.”

          “Two? Well, I say two—a pot? Um, please?”

          “I suppose—”

          “And toast. John likes toast.”

          Her eyes were sparkling and Sherlock couldn’t stop blushing.  “I’d say John might be a tad peckish this morning,” Disgustingly knowing giggle, “Hungry enough for more than toast. I’ll make breakfast for the pair of you…as I’m sure you have a fair appetite as well after all that…dancing.”   

          “How long?” Sherlock asked desperately.

          “Sounded like at least a half hour to me, but I’m not sure how long the warm up took.” Another giggle, “Oh, you mean until breakfast is ready? Give me about twenty minutes or so, Sherlock.”

          He escaped gratefully and reentered the flat and peeked in the bedroom; a finger of sunlight had reached the bed and was turning John’s pale hair gold. There was a very happy smile on John’s face and Sherlock melted. Silently he shed his dressing gown and slipped into bed, pulling the covers down and revealing John in all his glory.

          “Mmmm?” John hummed, coming awake as Sherlock kissed him. “Mmmm….hello gorgeous. Who’s a happy boy this morning then?”

          “I am,” Sherlock assured him, palming John’s erection, “And apparently so are you.”

          “Oh I think it’s my turn,” John purred, coming awake and tipping a very willing Sherlock onto his back. He pressed light kisses to his body as he worked his way down, not stopping until he was nuzzling Sherlock’s groin, “God, the idea of you having russet curls down here is the sexiest thing ever…I can see hints of copper in the stubble. I know you like to shave but would you let it grow out for me? Just long enough for me to dive face first into it?”

          “I can hardly deny you such a simple request,” Sherlock said breathlessly, touching John’s hair as he teased him, never quite touching his lips to Sherlock’s definitely very eager cock. “Jooooooohn….”

          John took pity on him at last and wrapped his lips around his length, doing that wonderful thing he did where he took all of him in his mouth and then swallowed. The brief grip of his throat closing around Sherlock drew an extremely embarrassing noise out of the Consulting Detective, who clutched at John’s hair and writhed at the delicious torment. John, evil, brilliant man that he was, drew back, teasing him once more, then licked him root to tip along the underside of his shaft and popped the plump glans in his mouth and sucked like it was a very yummy treat.

          When he rolled Sherlock’s balls in his firm palm Sherlock saw stars; the addition of a saliva slicked finger to his perinium had his heels pressing into the mattress as he arched his body, seeking more. “You are so sexy,” John praised him, watching Sherlock lose control, “Bloody hell but I want to suck this cock all day and shag that tight arse all night!”

          There was the sound of a sliding crash in the sitting room and they froze. “Oh bugger,” they heard faintly in the aftermath. Sherlock went red, and John started giggling. Hopping up, he wrapped Sherlock’s dressing gown around him and peeked out.

          “Oh hello, Mrs. Hudson. Are you alright? That’s quite a lot of broken china.”

          “Luckily it was just the cups…I always did hate that china pattern. Mr. Hudson picked it out. Don’t come out here, dear, you’re not wearing shoes.”

          “Set the tray down, I’ll put on shoes and clean up. Ooh, food!”

          “Yes, Sherlock was in a bit of a dither this morning so I told him I’d do you a tray.”

          “You are a sweetheart, Mrs. Hudson! It smells terrific. Go on, you leave that for me.”

          “Well, if you’re sure…”

          “Positive. Let us clean up and I’ll do the dishes too and bring these down to you when we’re done. Will that be alright?”

          “I always did like an eager man, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man.”

          “I’m the lucky one, Mrs. Hudson.”

          “Oh you two are sweet! Enjoy your breakfast dear.”

          “Oh we will.” Sherlock heard the door shut and a moment later John reappeared in the bedroom doorway, Sherlock’s dressing gown open over his nude form and a pair of trainers on his feet. “I’d have been happy with a cuppa. You didn’t have to have Mrs. Hudson fetching and carrying for us.”

          “I couldn’t find the tea things!”

          “Helpless,” John clicked his tongue, but he was smiling. “Well, since she went to all the trouble, shall we? No, you stay there, I’ll bring it in, don’t want you cutting your feet.”

          Sherlock was less concerned about eating than about finishing what they had started. He didn’t with to appear selfish however, so he smiled brightly and sat up. John reappeared, set the loaded tray on the bureau and frowned, “What are you sitting there for?”

          “Um…”

          “I’m not done with you, Sherlock Holmes, now lie back down and spread those legs, pet.”

          Happily, Sherlock complied. John shed his things and pounced on the bed, eyes bright. “Mind you, this doesn’t count as bringing me tea and toast in bed. You’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

          “Give me a reason to wish to pamper you,” Sherlock countered, grinning.

          “Gladly,” John purred, and took him in his mouth. Sherlock gasped; if John kept doing that thing with his tongue, he could have tea in bed every morning!

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, practice safe sex. Since this is fan fiction and fantasy, they are bareback all the way.


	8. Not An Ending, But A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return home to correct the missed chances of the past.

           Standing on the front stoop of his childhood home, John put his arm around his friend, his boyfriend, his lover, his Sherlock, and kissed him. It wasn’t a remotely inappropriate kiss for a public setting, but it very definitely announced that they were together. Sherlock, unprepared, stood with his hands away from John’s body, slightly unnerved.

          “Too public?” John asked in concern, pulling back.

          “I—no. I was merely not expecting you to do that here.” Sherlock gestured vaguely.

          “Kisses at the front door not your thing?” John asked, his eyes bright. “Do you prefer the back door?” He leered.

          Sherlock snorted, “No, I mean here. In full view of…everyone.”

          “You mean in full view of Nelson Mulgrave, who is currently staring at us out the front window of his dad’s shop?” John was easy, obviously not worried. “Did you not want them to know? All of them, the village, our friends, our enemies?”

          “Is he really?” Sherlock asked interest.

          “Yup. Right now, goggling at us like a goldfish in a bowl.” John waved over Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock turned and joined him, and they stood smiling and waving idiotically until Nelson dropped out of sight and they burst out laughing.

          “Boys!” John looked around, spotted their neighbor, Mrs. Stephens, who was in her front garden, waving an arm at them, “Hello, John, Sherlock.”

          “Hello, Mrs. Stephens,” John responded politely, walking over to the fence, Sherlock trailing after him. “You’re looking well.”

          “Aren’t you sweet?” The elderly woman smiled at him. “Come to visit your mum?”

          “Yeah…we wanted to surprise her, but now it looks like no one’s home.”

          “She’s taken Jasmine to dance class, they won’t be much longer. Would you two like to come in out of the cold and wait? I’ve put the kettle on.” She smiled hopefully, looking small and frail. John knew she was lonely since her husband had died.

          “That’d be lovely thanks,” John said, as Sherlock objected weakly, “We couldn’t possibly intrude—”

          “You’re lucky I’ve made biscuits just yesterday,” she burbled happily as they trooped inside, Sherlock sulking and receiving a kick to the ankle from John. They exchanged a flurry of silent objections and counter-arguments, hands waving, and when Mrs. Stephens turned and caught them John blurted out, “Fly!” even as Sherlock said, “We’re learning sign language.”

          Mrs. Stephens looked bewildered, “Oh? Seems a lot of gestures for one word.”

          “Erm, yes,” Sherlock mumbled, “I suppose it is.” He ignored John’s giggling.

          There was cat hair all over everything, including the tea cups and the biscuits; with a good deal of silent bossiness John insisted he finish his helping. Sherlock escaped by pleading the need for a smoke, John glowering after him. He was still enjoying his cigarette when Mrs. Watson—Mrs. Kennedy—pulled up in her car. Jasmine caught sight of him first and to Sherlock’s surprise her face lit up excitedly, “Sherlock!” As she ran toward him, he turned and knocked on the parlour window, shouting, “Your mum’s home!” whilst pretending to sign to John. With Mrs. Stephens distracted by his flailings, John flicked him a two-fingered salute.

          “You came back!” Jasmine screeched, bowling into Sherlock’s legs and flinging her arms around his waist. She hugged him enthusiastically, tipping her head back to smile at him, “Granny said you’d be back! I didn’t think it would be so soon though…can we go to the arcade _tonight_?”

          “What?”

          “Granny said that before you left last time, you and Uncle John promised to take me to the arcade and to eat fish and chips and that you’d take me to the cinema as well.”

          “Uh…”

          “You wouldn’t try and back out of a promise to a little girl, now would you Sherlock dear?” John’s mum smiled at him over Jasmine’s head, eyes glinting as dangerously as ever her son’s did.

          “No, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock assured her, “Um, I mean, Mrs. Kennedy.”

          “Oh tosh, Sherlock, call me Mum.” Her expression was quite gleeful and very _knowing_ and left him flustered.

          He was panicking a bit at the thought of being in charge of a six year old, and very much unnerved by John’s mum’s sudden familiarity…and then John joined him and he relaxed; John had been to war, John could handle her. He wasn’t sure which _her_ he was thinking of. Possibly both of them. Watsons were deadly to a man’s dignity.

          “Hello, mum,” John greeted his mother, going in for a hug and a kiss. She held up a hand, “Did you do the thing I asked? Otherwise you needn’t bother coming in.”

          Sherlock looked between them, confused. John, instead of answering his mother, took Sherlock in his arms and gave him a very sweet kiss.

          “Eugh,” Jasmine groaned, nose wrinkled, “Why do grown people kiss so much?”

          “Because we’re in love,” John informed her, and gave Sherlock another kiss, this time on the cheek, nuzzling him slightly. “And because he’s so adorable I just can’t keep from kissing him.”

          Sherlock went pink, and avoided everyone’s eyes. He was not adorable.

          _John_ was adorable.

          Smiling, John’s mum motioned them toward the house, giving a friendly wave to Mrs. Stephens and another to Nelson, both of whom were peering out of their respective windows. “That’s alright then. Come along and I’ll make cocoa…you’ll need something to wash all the cat hair out of your throats.”

 

******

 

          Was this what it would be like to have a family with Sherlock? John had never had a desire for children, no vision of himself as a father; but he had to admit that Sherlock was very good with Jasmine once he stopped worrying that she was somehow going to go on a Godzilla-like rampage through the village. He happily answered her zillion questions—some of them very awkward—and told her tales of their youth, throwing John affectionate looks that made him want to jump him and cover the man with kisses. With manly restraint he managed to make it through the evening.

          “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” John asked as they walked back home, Jasmine half asleep in his arms. Sherlock carried the giant teddy bear John had won her with all the tickets he collected at the shooting booth.

          “I quite enjoyed myself.” Sherlock smiled at him over the enormous ears of the bear.

          They walked along in comfortable silence, happy to have had a rather relaxing evening all in all. Mum was waiting up when they got home, and she took care of seeing Jasmine to bed, after giving them both kisses. Thirsty from their fishy dinner, they stopped in the kitchen to down glasses of water; Mum bid them a quiet, fond goodnight as she passed through to the master suite. After going upstairs and brushing their teeth, Sherlock headed for the guest bedroom, which they were to share. John caught his hand and tugged him toward his old room.

          “What are we doing here?” Sherlock asked softly.

          “Twice in this room we came close to something we both wanted very much, and both times I messed everything up,” John said, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and kissing his exposed chest. He smiled up at the man he loved. “Tonight I want to lie in that bed with you and fulfill all the daydreams I used to have while lying there.”

          “John,” Sherlock sighed in his deep voice which kindled a fire in John’s chest, his own hands coming up to divest John of his clothing. Naked, they stretched out on the bed, tangling their limbs together and kissing languorously. “This is how you imagined it?” He asked a long while later, hands buried in John’s hair as he lavished kisses on his neck.

          “This and many ways,” John hummed, palming his arse in one hand and tracing Sherlock’s ribs with the other. He rolled them so he was on top, “But one of my favourites was to picture me on top of you, making very, very slow love to you…so soft and quiet that the bed springs didn’t even squeak. Long hours of barely moving inside you as we became more and more aroused…and when you came I wanted to catch your cries in my mouth and kiss you silent.”

          Sherlock grew harder against his thigh, and a fine tremor shook his frame. “John…John is it possible for someone to spontaneously combust from the pressure of all the blood rushing to their penis?”

          “Aww, I’ll put it on your tombstone—SHERLOCK HOLMES, DIED OF A MASSIVE COCKSTAND—and people will come from far and wide to marvel at the giant boner I’ll have them carve.” John giggled and stifled a shriek when Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s ribs. “Don’t! Love…agh! That tickles!”

          “You’re a very unfeeling person, John Watson.”

          “Oh…I _feel_.” John ground subtly against Sherlock, flicking his tongue over his lover’s lips and then humming happily as they exchanged a hungry kiss. “Will you let me make love to you, darling?”

          Sherlock sighed in a very martyred fashion, “I suppose if I _must_ accommodate you, John. You ask for so very little.”

          “Nothing little in this bed,” John purred, sliding down and taking Sherlock in his mouth. He pulled the bottle of lube he’d grabbed from his shaving bag out of his pocket and coated his fingers; one hand on the cock and the other on Sherlock’s crack and within minutes Sherlock was muffling his groans in the pillow he had dragged over his face.

          John took his time, but at last Sherlock was loose and wet, and he simply couldn’t stand it any longer. With one final swipe of his tongue around the loosened ring of muscle, he sat back on his knees and applied a very liberal amount of lube to his aching dick. Sinking inside Sherlock for the first time made his eyes sting with tears; up until the last week he’d feared this would always be just a heartbreakingly impossible fantasy. Never had he dreamed that he would actually get the chance to share this kind of intimacy with Sherlock—certainly even in his wildest, most improbable imaginings had John ever dared to hope that he would be making love to Sherlock, who was reaching for him and pulling him tightly to his chest. Calling him sweetheart in that rumbling purr, kissing his ear most distractingly…

          “Perfect,” John breathed, sinking fully inside Sherlock’s arse and letting the full length of his body rest against his lover’s. He sipped at his lips, tiny, sweet kisses as they adjusted to the feel of one another. “Love, you cannot imagine how perfect this feels…to be inside you this way…making love to you.”

          “I know precisely how you feel, John,” Sherlock assured him, pressing a kiss to his temple and nuzzling his cheek, “I am quite certain I can match you long-held fantasy for long-held fantasy.” He wrapped his legs around John’s thighs, hooking his feet under his calves and creating a very tight space for John to thrust shallowly, “I am very much looking forward to exploring all of them with you.”

          “Mmm,” John agreed, shifting so his legs spread Sherlock’s farther apart; he braced one hand next to his head and the other slid under the small of Sherlock’s back, holding him even more tightly as he made slow, desultory love to him. They were pressed together from head to toe, kissing softly as John moved with minimal motions. “Years and years for all the ways we can imagine to love one another.”

          His words sent a shudder through Sherlock, whose hands were sweeping up and down his back, down to cup his bum and then up to hold John’s head still so he could kiss him deeply, until they were both gasping. John shuddered to a stop, “Don’t move, love…I need a moment. I’m not ready to end this and you’re so unbearably sexy and I’m going to come any minute unless we stay still.”

          Pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s, John concentrated on breathing and not coming. Once he felt more in control John flexed his hips and gave them a swivel, eliciting a tiny moan; doing it again he sipped the sound from Sherlock’s lips.

          “You feel sooooo good inside me, John,” Sherlock breathed, tilting his head so he could approach the kiss from another angle, “I’m not sure it’s ever been so, so intense before…is this how you felt when I…?”

          “When you made love to me?” John brought both hands up and cradled his face, peppering him with little kisses. “The first time was so urgent and hot and beyond the wildest thing I ever pictured…” He swept Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, humming as if he were gathering honey from the comb, “And then the next morning when you sat in your chair and held my hips as I rode you…looking into your eyes as you moved inside me gave the happiest, most brilliant feeling ever. I haven’t ever experienced sex the way I do with you.”

          “I feel the same,” Sherlock gasped, neck arching as John withdrew and then thrust back inside him with delicious suddenness. John took advantage of his position to suck on that long, beautiful neck; changing his angle slightly he brushed Sherlock’s prostate and savoured the resulting moan.

          “Softly now, love. No noises remember? We’re not supposed to be cavorting in my childhood bed. Think about how quietly we would have done this when we were seventeen.”

          “If you do that again,” Sherlock choked out, hips trying to follow John as he resumed his tantalizing strokes over his prostate, “Then I shan’t be at all responsible for the sounds I make, love.”

          “Hmm, a challenge?”

          “Oh John, no, I didn’t mean—” Sherlock bucked under him, an aborted movement as he was trapped by John’s weight pinning him down. “ _Ahhhh…!_ ”

          “Shhh…” John whisper-giggled, covering his mouth with his own. “Softly now, Sherlock.” He was deliciously aware of the unbearably wonderful glide of his cock in Sherlock’s tight passage, the sensual rub of Sherlock’s leaking cock against his abs…feeling a bit lightheaded and out of control, John pulled almost out and then plunged back in, rocking his body against Sherlock’s. He rose up slightly and pressed a firm palm over his lover’s mouth, stifling his helpless grunting ohs as John sped up. “Shhh…come on love…come for me. Let me swallow all those squeals and sobs and sighs…”

          Mouths fused together, John rocked them home to bliss, nearly shouting himself when Sherlock climaxed and moaned into his mouth, arse clenching tightly around John. That was all it took, and he groaned, long and heartfelt, as he pumped gloriously in his love’s body. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly about him and John squirmed his arms under his boyfriend, returning the gesture, pressing kisses to his sweaty chest, feeling Sherlock’s lips on his hair. Sherlock’s cum had long cooled into sticky pools on his belly, and John had softened and slid from him by the time they finally parted. They didn’t go far, however, merely bumping into one another as they wiped themselves on John’s vest and slipped under the covers.

          They had yet to find a cuddling position neither of them enjoyed; tonight Sherlock happily curled up as the little spoon, sighing when John put his arms around him and rested his cheek on Sherlock’s neck. “Goodnight, pet,” John sighed sleepily, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder.

          “Goodnight, John, and sweetest of dreams,” Sherlock wound the fingers of his right hand with John’s left and brought them to his mouth for a kiss. “I love you.”

          “I love you,” John responded, hitching up a bit so he could snuggle closer and kiss Sherlock’s cheek a half a dozen times rapidly until he summoned a very silly, sleepy giggle from his beloved. “Am I squashing you?” He asked dreamily, remaining where he was, possessively clutching his boyfriend like a giant teddy bear, battling a yawn, “Too heavy?”

          “Not too heavy at all, John,” Sherlock slurred sleepily, holding fast to his hand, “Never too heavy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all my lovely readers, for reading, for the kudos you left, the comments you took the time to write...for the interest you took in what was originally supposed to be about a 7k word silly, cracky little one-shot. I hope you all enjoyed this tale of a young John and Sherlock finding their way back to one another.


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